LIBRARY 

University  of 

California 

Irvine 


ZI07 
M4-7 


MERCY    PHILBRICK'S    CHOICE. 


MERCY    PHILBRICK'S 
CHOICE. 


BY 

HELEN    JACKSON    (H.  H.), 

AUTHOR   OF    "  RAMONA,"    "A   CENTURY   OF    DISHONOR,"    "  VERSES,"    "  SONNETS 

AND    LYRICS,"    "GLIMPSES   OF   THREE   COASTS,"    "BITS   OF   TRAVEL," 

"BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT   HOME,'      "ZEPH,"    "HETTY'S   STRANGE 

HISTORY,"      "  BETWEEN     WHILES,"      "  BITS     OF    TALK 

ABOUT    HOME   MATTERS,"    "  BITS   OF   TALK    FOR 

YOUNG    FOLKS,"    "  NELLY'S   SILVER 

MINE,"    "CAT   STORIES." 


BOSTON: 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY, 

1904. 


Copyright,  1870, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 

Copyright,  1904, 
BY  WILLIAM  S.  JACKSON. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


I. 

To  one  who  found  us  on  a  starless  night, 

All  helpless,  groping  in  a  dangerous  way, 

Where  countless  treacherous  hidden  pitfalls  lay, 

And,  seeing  all  our  peril,  flashed  a  light 

To  show  to  our  bewildered,  blinded  sight, 

By  one  swift,  clear,  and  piercing  ray, 

The  safe,  sure  path,  — what  words  could  reach  the  height 

Of  our  great  thankfulness  f    And  yet,  at  most, 

The  most  he  saved  was  this  poor,  paltry  life 

Of  flesh,  which  is  so  little  worth  its  cost, 

Which  eager  sows,  but  may  not  stay  to  reap, 

And  so  soon  breathless  with  the  strain  and  strife, 

Its  work  half-done,  exhausted,  falls  asleep. 

II. 

But  unto  him  who  finds  men's  souls  astray 
In  night  that  they  know  not  is  night  at  all, 
Walking,  with  reckless  feet,  where  they  may  fall 
Each  moment  into  deadlier  deaths  than  slay 
The  flesh,  —  to  him  whose  truth  can  rend  away 
From  such  lost  souls  their  moral  night's  black  pall,— 
Oh,  unto  him  what  words  can  hearts  recall 
Which  their  deep  gratitude  finds  jit  to  sayf 
No  words  but  these,  —  and  these  to  him  are  best:  — 
That,  henceforth,  like  a  quenchless  vestal  flame, 
His  words  of  truth  shall  burn  on  Truth's  pure  shrine 
His  memory  be  truth  worshipped  and  confessed  ; 
Our  gratitude  and  love,  the  priestess  line, 
Who  serve  before  Truth's  altar,  in  his  name. 


CHAPTER   I. 

TT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  November  day.  The 
-*•  sky  had  worn  all  day  that  pale  leaden  gray  color, 
which  is  depressing  even  to  the  least  sensitive  of  souls. 
Now,  at  sunset,  a  dull  red  tint  was  slowly  stealing  over 
the  west ;  but  the  gray  cloud  was  too  thick  for  the  sun 
to  pierce,  and  the  struggle  of  the  crimson  color  with  the 
unyielding  sky  only  made  the  heavens  look  more  stern 
and  pitiless  than  before. 

Stephen  White  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  leaning 
on  the  gate  which  shut  off,  but  seemed  in  no  wise  to 
separate,  the  front  yard  of  the  house  in  which  he  lived 
from  the  public  highway.  There  is  something  always 
pathetic  in  the  attempt  to  enforce  the  idea  of  seclu 
sion  and  privacy,  by  building  a  fence  around  houses 
only  ten  or  twelve  feet  away  from  the  public  road,  and 
only  forty  or  fifty  feet  from  each  other.  Rows  of  pick 
eted  palings  and  gates  with  latches  and  locks  seem  su 
perfluous,  when  the  passer-by  can  look,  if  he  likes,  into 
the  very  centre  of  your  sitting-room,  and  your  neighbors 
on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left  can  overhear  every 

1  A 


MERCY  PHILBRICICS  CHOICE. 


word  you  say  on  a  summer  night,  where  windows  are 
open. 

One  cannot  walk  through  the  streets  of  a  New  Eng 
land  village,  without  being  impressed  by  a  sense  of  this 
futile  semblance  of  barrier,  this  touching  effort  at  with 
drawal  and  reticence.  Often  we  see  the  tacit  recogni 
tion  of  its  uselessness  in  an  old  gate  shoved  back  to 
its  farthest,  and  left  standing  so  till  the  very  grass  roots 
have  embanked  themselves  on  each  side  of  it,  and  it 
can  never  again  be  closed  without  digging  away  the 
sods  in  which  it  is  wedged.  The  gate  on  which  Stephen 
White  was  leaning  had  stood  open  in  that  way  for  years 
before  Stephen  rented  the  house ;  had  stood  open,  in 
fact,  ever  since  old  Billy  Jacobs,  the  owner  of  the  house, 
had  been  carried  out  of  it  dead,  in  a  coffin  so  wide  that 
at  first  the  bearers  had  thought  it  could  not  pass  through 
the  gate  ;  but  by  huddling  close,  three  at  the  head  and 
three  at  the  feet,  they  managed  to  tug  the  heavy  old 
man  through  without  taking  down  the  palings.  This 
was  so  long  ago  that  now  there  was  nobody  left  who 
remembered  Billy  Jacobs  distinctly,  except  his  widow, 
who  lived  in  a  poor  little  house  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  her  only  income  being  that  derived  from  the  rent 
ing  of  the  large  house,  in  which  she  had  once  lived  in 
comfort  with  her  husband  and  son.  The  house  was  a 
double  house ;  and  for  a  few  years  Billy  Jacobs's  twin 
brother,  a  sea  captain,  had  lived  in  the  other  half 
of  it.  But  Mrs.  Billy  could  not  abide  Mrs.  John,  and 
so  with  a  big  heart  wrench  the  two  brothers,  who  loved 
each  other  as  only  twin  children  can  love,  had  separated. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


Captain  John  took  his  wife  and  went  to  sea  again.  The 
ship  was  never  heard  of,  and  to  the  day  of  Billy  Jacobs's 
death  he  never  forgave  his  wife.  In  his  heart  he  looked 
upon  her  as  his  brother's  murderer.  Very  much  like 
the  perpetual  presence  of  a  ghost  under  her  roof  it 
must  have  been  to  the  woman  also,  the  unbroken  silence 
of  those  untenanted  rooms,  and  that  never  opened  door 
on  the  left  side  of  her  hall,  which  she  must  pass  when 
ever  she  went  in  or  out  of  her  house.  There  were  those 
who  said  that  she  was  never  seen  to  look  towards  that 
door;  and  that  whenever  a  noise,  as  of  a  rat  in  the 
wall,  or  a  blind  creaking  in  the  wind,  came  from  that 
side  of  the  house,  Mrs.  Billy  turned  white,  and  shud 
dered.  Well  she  might.  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  have 
lying  on  one's  heart  in  this  life  the  consciousness  that 
one  has  been  ever  so  innocently  the  occasion,  if  not  the 
cause,  of  a  fellow-creature's  turning  aside  into  the  path 
which  was  destined  to  take  him  to  his  death. 

The  very  next  day  after  Billy  Jacobs's  funeral,  his 
widow  left  the  house.  She  sold  all  the  furniture,  except 
what  was  absolutely  necessary  for  a  very  meagre  out 
fitting  of  the  little  cottage  into  which  she  moved.  The 
miserly  habit  of  her  husband  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
fallen  on  her  like  a  mantle.  Her  life  shrank  and 
dwindled  in  every  possible  way ;  she  almost  starved 
herself  and  her  boy,  although  the  rent  of  her  old  home 
stead  was  quite  enough  to  make  them  comfortable.  In 
a  few  years,  to  complete  the  poor  woman's  misery,  her 
son  ran  away  and  went  to  sea.  The  sea-farer's  stories 
which  his  Uncle  John  had  told  him,  when  he  was  a  little 


MERCY  PHILBRWK'S  CHOICE. 


child,  had  never  left  his  mind;  and  the  drearier  his 
mother  made  life  for  him  on  land,  the  more  longingly 
he  dwelt  on  his  fancies  of  life  at  sea,  till  at  last,  when 
he  was  only  fifteen,  he  disappeared  one  day,  leaving  a 
note,  not  for  his  mother,  but  for  his  Sunday-school 
teacher,  —  the  only  human  being  he  loved.  This  young 
woman  carried  the  note  to  Mrs.  Jacobs.  She  read  it, 
made  no  comment,  and  handed  it  back.  Her  visitor 
was  chilled  and  terrified  by  her  manner. 

"  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you,  Mrs.  Jacobs  ? "  she 
said.  "I  do  assure  you  I  sympathize  with  you  most 
deeply.  I  think  the  boy  will  soon  come  back.  He 
will  find  the  sea  life  very  different  from  what  he  has 
dreamed. " 

"No,  you  can  do  nothing  for  me,"  replied  Mrs. 
Jacobs,  in  a  voice  as  unmoved  as  her  face.  "  He  will 
never  come  back.  He  will  be  drowned."  And  from 
that  day  no  one  ever  heard  her  mention  her  son.  It 
was  believed,  however,  that  she  had  news  from  him,  and 
that  she  sent  him  money ;  for,  although  the  rents  of  her 
house  were  paid  to  her  regularly,  she  grew  if  possible 
more  and  more  penurious  every  year,  allowing  herself 
barely  enough  food  to  support  life,  and  wearing  such 
tattered  and  patched  clothes  that  she  was  almost  an 
object  of  terror  to  children  when  they  met  her  in 
lonely  fields  and  woods,  bending  down  to  the  ground 
and  searching  for  herbs  like  an  old  witch.  At  one  time, 
also,  she  went  in  great  haste  to  a  lawyer  in  the  village, 
and  with  his  assistance  raised  three  thousand  dollars 
on  a  mortgage  on  her  house,  mortgaging  it  very  nearly 


MERCY  PfflLBRICK'S  CHOICE.  5 

to  its  full  value.  In  vain  he  represented  to  her  that,  in 
case  the  house  should  chance  to  stand  empty  for  a  year, 
she  would  have  no  money  to  pay  the  interest  on  her 
mortgage,  and  would  lose  the  property.  She  either 
could  not  understand,  or  did  not  care  for  what  he  said. 
The  house  always  had  brought  her  in  about  so  many 
dollars  a  year ;  she  believed  it  always  would ;  at  any 
rate,  she  wanted  this  money.  And  so  it  came  to  pass 
that  the  mortgage  on  the  old  Jacobs  house  had  come  into 
Stephen  White's  hands,  and  he  was  now  living  in  one 
half  of  it,  his  own  tenant  and  landlord  at  once,  as  he 
often  laughingly  said. 

These  old  rumors  and  sayings  about  the  Jacobs's 
family  history  were  running  in  Stephen's  head  this  even 
ing,  as  he  stood  listlessly  leaning  on  the  gate,  and  look 
ing  down  at  the  unsightly  spot  of  bare  earth  still  left 
where  the  gate  had  so  long  stood  pressed  back  against 
the  fence. 

"  I  wonder  how  long  it  '11  take  to  get  that  old  rut 
smooth  and  green  like  the  rest  of  the  yard,"  he  thought. 
Stephen  White  absolutely  hated  ugliness.  It  did  not 
merely  irritate  and  depress  him,  as  it  does  everybody  of 
fine  fastidiousness:  he  hated  not  only  the  sight  of  it, 
he  hated  it  with  a  sort  of  unreasoning  vindictive- 
ness.  If  it  were  a  picture,  he  wanted  to  burn  the 
picture,  cut  it,  tear  it,  trample  it  under  foot,  get  it  off 
the  face  of  the  earth  immediately,  at  any  cost  or  risk. 
It  had  no  business  to  exist :  if  nobody  else  would  make 
way  with  it,  he  must.  He  often  saw  places  that  he 
would  have  liked  to  devastate,  to  blot  out  of  existence 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


if  he  could,  just  because  they  were  barren  and  unsightly. 
Once,  when  he  was  a  very  little  child,  he  suddenly  seized 
a  book  of  his  father's,  —  an  old,  shabby,  worn  dictionary, 
—  and  flung  it  into  the  fire  with  uncontrollable  passion  \ 
and,  on  being  asked  why  he  did  it,  had  nothing  to  say  in 
jnstification  of  his  act,  except  this  extraordinary  state 
ment  :  "  It  was  an  ugly  book  ;  it  hurt  me.  Ugly  books 
ought  to  go  in  the  fire."  What  the  child  suffered,  and, 
still  more,  what  the  man  suffered  from  this  hatred  of 
ugliness,  no  words  could  portray.  Ever  since  he  could 
remember,  he  had  been  unhappy  from  the  lack  of  the 
beautiful  in  the  surroundings  of  his  daily  life.  His 
father  had  been  poor ;  his  mother  had  been  an  invalid  ; 
and  neither  father  nor  mother  had  a  trace  of  the  artistic 
temperament.  From  what  long-forgotten  ancestor  in 
his  plain,  hard-working  family  had  come  Stephen's  pas 
sionate  love  of  beauty,  nobody  knew.  It  was  the  de 
spair  of  his  father,  the  torment  of  his  mother.  From 
childhood  to  boyhood,  from  boyhood  to  manhood,  he 
had  felt  himself  needlessly  hurt  and  perversely  mis 
understood  on  this  one  point.  But  it  had  not  soured 
him  :  it  had  only  saddened  him,  and  made  him  reticent. 
In  his  own  quiet  way,  he  went  slowly  on,  adding  each 
year  some  new  touch  of  simple  adornment  to  their 
home.  Every  dollar  he  could  spare  out  of  his  earn 
ings  went  into  something  for  the  eye  to  feast  on ; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  old  people's  perpetual  grumbling  and 
perpetual  antagonism,  it  came  about  that  they  grew  to 
be,  in  a  surly  fashion,  proud  of  Stephen's  having  made 
their  home  unlike  the  homes  of  their  neighbors. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  7 

"  That 's  Stephen's  last  notion.  He  's  never  satisfied 
without  he  's  sticking  up  suthin'  new  or  different,"  they 
would  say,  as  they  called  attention  to  some  new  picture 
or  shelf  or  improvement  in  the  house.  "  It 's  all  tom 
foolery.  Things  was  well  enough  before."  But  in  their 
hearts  they  were  secretly  a  little  elate,  as  in  latter  years 
they  had  come  to  know,  by  books  and  papers  which 
Stephen  forced  them  to  hear  or  to  read,  that  he  was 
really  in  sympathy  with  well-known  writers  in  this  matter 
of  the  adornment  of  homes,  the  love  of  beautiful  things 
even  in  every-day  life. 

A  little  more  than  a  year  before  the  time  at  which 
our  story  begins,  Stephen's  father  had  died.  On  an 
investigation  of  his  affairs,  it  was  found  that  after  the 
settling  of  the  estate  very  little  would  remain  for  Ste 
phen  and  his  mother.  The  mortgage  on  the  old  Jacobs 
house  was  the  greater  part  of  their  property.  Very 
reluctantly  Stephen  decided  that  their  wisest  —  in  fact, 
their  only  —  course  was  to  move  into  this  house  to  live. 
Many  and  many  a  time  he  had  walked  past  the  old 
house,  and  thought,  as  he  looked  at  it,  what  a  bare, 
staring,  hopeless,  joyless-looking  old  house  it  was.  It 
had  originally  been  a  small,  square  house.  The  addition 
which  Billy  Jacobs  had  made  to  it  was  oblong,  running 
out  to  the  south,  and  projecting  on  the  front  a  few  feet 
beyond  the  other  part.  This  obtrusive  jog  was  cer 
tainly  very  ugly ;  and  it  was  impossible  to  conceive  of 
any  reason  for  it.  Very  possibly,  it  was  only  a  car 
penter's  blunder ;  for  Billy  Jacobs  was,  no  doubt,  his 
own  architect,  and  left  all  details  of  the  work  to  the 


8  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

builders.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  little,  clumsy,  meaning 
less  jog  ruined  the  house,  —  gave  it  an  uncomfortably 
awry  look,  like  a  dining-table  awkwardly  pieced  out  for 
an  emergency  by  another  table  a  little  too  narrow. 

The  house  had  been  for  several  years  occupied  by 
families  of  mill  operatives,  and  had  gradually  acquired 
that  indefinable,  but  unmistakable  tenement-house  look, 
which  not  even  neatness  and  good  repair  can  wholly 
banish  from  a  house.  The  orchard  behind  the  house 
had  so  run  down  for  want  of  care  that  it  looked  more 
like  a  tangle  of  wild  trees  than  like  any  thing  which 
had  ever  been  an  orchard.  Yet  the  Roxbury  Russets 
and  Baldwins  of  that  orchard  had  once  been  Billy 
Jacobs's  great  pride,  the  one  point  of  hospitality  which 
his  miserliness  never  conquered.  Long  after  it  would 
have  broken  his  heart  to  set  out  a  generous  dinner  for 
a  neighbor,  he  would  feast  him  on  choice  apples,  and 
send  him  away  with  a  big  basket  full  in  his  hands. 
Now  every  passing  school-boy  helped  himself  to  the 
wan,  withered,  and  scanty  fruit ;  and  nobody  had  thought 
it  worth  while  to  mend  the  dilapidated  fences  which 
might  have  helped  to  shut  them  out. 

Even  Mrs.  White,  with  all  her  indifference  to  exter 
nals,  rebelled  at  first  at  the  idea  of  going  to  live  in  the 
old  Jacobs  house. 

"  I  '11  never  go  there,  Stephen,"  she  said  petulantly. 
"  I  'm  not  going  to  live  in  half  a  house  with  the  mill 
people ;  and  it 's  no  better  than  a  barn,  the  hideous,  old, 
faded,  yellow  thing ! " 

If  it  crossed  Stephen's  mind  that  there  was  a  touch 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE,  9 

of  late  retribution  in  his  mother's  having  come  at  last 
to  a  sense  of  suffering  because  she  must  live  in  an 
unsightly  house,  he  did  not  betray  it. 

He  replied  very  gently.  He  was  never  heard  to 
speak  other  than  gently  to  his  mother,  though  to  every 
one  else  his  manner  was  sometimes  brusque  and  dicta 
torial. 

"But,  mother,  I  think  we  must.  It  is  the  only  way 
that  we  can  be  sure  of  the  rent.  And,  if  we  live  our 
selves  in  one  half  of  it,  we  shall  find  it  much  easier  to 
get  good  tenants  for  the  other  part.  I  promise  you 
none  of  the  mill  people  shall  ever  live  there  again. 
Please  do  not  make  it  hard  for  me,  mother.  We  must 
do  it." 

When  Stephen  said  "  must,"  his  mother  never  gain 
said  him.  He  was  only  twenty-five,  but  his  will  was 
stronger  than  hers, — as  much  stronger  as  his  temper 
was  better.  Persons  judging  hastily,  by  her  violent 
assertions  and  vehement  statements  of  her  determina 
tion,  as  contrasted  with  Stephen's  gentle,  slow,  almost 
hesitating  utterance  of  his  opinions  or  intentions, 
might  have  assumed  that  she  would  always  conquer ; 
but  it  was  not  so.  In  all  little  things,  Stephen  was  her 
slave,  because  she  was  a  suffering  invalid  and  his 
mother.  But,  in  all  important  decisions,  he  was  the 
master  ;  and  she  recognized  it,  and  leaned  upon  it  in  a 
way  which  was  almost  ludicrous  in  its  alternation  with 
her  petulance  and  perpetual  dictating  to  him  in  trifles. 

And  so  they  went  to  live  in  the  old  Jacobs  house. 
They  took  the  northern  half  of  it,  the  part  in  which  the 
1* 


10  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

sea  captain  and  his  wife  had  lived.  This  half  of  the 
house  was  not  so  pleasant  as  the  other,  had  less  sun, 
and  had  no  door  upon  the  street ;  but  it  was  smaller 
and  better  suited  to  their  needs,  and  moreover,  Stephen 
said  to  his  mother,  — 

"We  must  live  in  the  half  we  should  find  it  hardest 
to  rent  to  a  desirable  tenant." 

For  the  first  six  months  after  they  moved  in,  the 
"wing,"  as  Mrs.  White  persisted  in  calling  it,  though  it 
was  larger  by  two  rooms  than  the  part  she  occupied 
herself,  stood  empty.  There  would  have  been  plenty 
of  applicants  for  it,  but  it  had  been  noised  in  the  town 
that  the  Whites  had  given  out  that  none  but  people  as 
good  as  they  were  themselves  would  be  allowed  to  rent 
the  house.  This  made  a  mighty  stir  among  the  mill 
operatives  and  the  trades-people,  and  Stephen  got  many 
a  sour  look  and  short  answer,  whose  real  source  he 
never  suspected. 

"  Ahem !  there  he  goes  with  his  head  in  the  clouds, 
damn  him ! "  muttered  Barker  the  grocer,  one  day,  as 
Stephen  in  a  more  than  ordinarily  absent-minded  fit 
had  passed  Mr.  Barker's  door  without  observing  that 
Mr.  Barker  stood  in  it,  ready  to  bow  and  smile  to  the 
whole  world.  Mr.  Barker's  sister  had  just  married  an 
overseer  in  the  mill ;  and  they  had  been  very  anxious  to 
set  up  housekeeping  in  the  Jacobs  house,  but  had  been 
prevented  from  applying  for  it  by  hearing  of  Mrs. 
White's  determination  to  have  no  mill  people  under  the 
same  roof  with  herself. 

"  Mill  people,  indeed ! "  exclaimed  Jane  Barker,  when 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  1 1 

her  lover  told  her,  in  no  very  guarded  terms,  the  reason 
they  could  not  have  the  house  on  which  she  had  set  her 
heart. 

"  Mill  people,  indeed  !  I  'd  like  to  know  if  they  're 
not  every  whit 's  good  's  an  old  shark  of  a  lawyer  like 
Hugh  White  was  !  I  '11  be  bound,  if  poor  old  granny 
Jacobs  hadn't  lost  what  little  wit  she  ever  had,  it  'ud  be 
very  soon  seen  whether  Madam  White  's  got  the  right  to 
say  who  's  to  come  and  who  's  to  go  in  that  house.  It 's 
a  nasty  old  yaller  shell  anyhow,  not  to  say  nothin'  o* 
it 's  bein'  haunted,  's  like  's  not.  But  there  ain't  no  other 
place  so  handy  to  the  mill  for  us,  an'  I  guess  our 
money  's  good  ez  any  lawyer's  money,  o'  the  hull  on 
'em  any  day.  Mill  people,  indeed !  I  '11  jest  give 
Steve  White  a  piece  o'  my  mind,  the  first  time  I  see 
him  on  the  street. " 

Jane  and  her  lover  were  sitting  on  the  tops  of  two 
barrels  just  outside  the  grocery  door,  when  this  conver 
sation  took  place.  Just  as  the  last  words  had  left  her 
lips,  she  looked  up  and  saw  Stephen  approaching  at 
a  very  rapid  pace.  The  unusual  sight  of  two  people 
perched  on  barrels  on  the  sidewalk  roused  Stephen  from 
the  deep  reverie  in  which  he  habitually  walked.  Lift 
ing  his  hat  as  courteously  as  if  he  were  addressing  the 
most  distinguished  of  women,  he  bowed,  and  said  smil 
ing,  "  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Jane  ? "  and  "  Good-morn 
ing,  Mr.  Lovejoy,"  and  passed  on  ;  but  not  before  Jane 
Barker  had  had  time  to  say  in  her  gentlest  tones,  "  Very 
well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Stephen,"  while  an  ugly  sneei 
spread  over  the  face  of  Reuben  Lovejoy. 


12  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE 

"  Woman  all  over ! "  he  muttered.  "  Never  saw  one 
on  ye  yet  thet  wasn't  caught  by  a  bow  from  a  palaverin' 
fool." 

Jane  laughed  nervously.     She  herself  felt  ashamed 
of  having  so  soon  given  the  lie  to  her  own  words  of 
bravado  ;  but  she  was  woman  enough  not  to  admit  he 
mortification. 

"  I  know  he  's  a  palaverin'  fool 's  well 's  you  do  ;  bu 
I  reckon  I  've  got  some  manners  o'  my  own,  's  well 's  he 
When  a  man  bids  me  a  pleasant  good-mornin',  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  take  that  time  to  fly  out  at  him,  however  much 
I  Ve  got  agin  him." 

And  Reuben  was  silenced.  The  under-current  of  ill- 
feeling  against  Stephen  and  his  mother  went  steadily 
on  increasing.  There  is  a  wonderful  force  in  these 
slow  under-currents  of  feeling,  in  small  communities, 
for  or  against  individuals.  After  they  have  once  be 
come  a  steady  tide,  nothing  can  check  their  force  or 
turn  their  direction.  Sometimes  they  can  be  traced 
back  to  their  spring,  as  a  stream  can:  one  lucky  or 
unlucky  word  or  deed,  years  ago,  made  a  friend  or  an 
enemy  of  one  person,  and  that  person's  influence  has 
divided  itself  again  and  again,  as  brooks  part  off  and 
divide  into  countless  rivulets,  and  water  whole  districts. 
But  generally  one  finds  it  impossible  to  trace  the  like 
or  dislike  to  its  beginning.  A  stranger,  asking  the 
reason  of  it,  is  answered  in  an  off-hand  way, — 

"Oh,  everybody  '11  tell  you  the  same  thing.  There 
isn't  a  soul  in  the  town  but  hates  him  ; "  or,  "  Well,  he  's 
just  the  most  popular  man  in  the  town.  You  '11  never 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  13 

hear  a  word  said  against  him,  —  never ;  not  if  you  were 
to  settle  right  down  here,  and  live." 

It  was  months  before  Stephen  realized  that  there  was 
slowly  forming  in  the  town  a  dislike  to  him.  He  was 
slow  in  discovering  it,  because  he  had  always  lived 
alone  ;  had  no  intimate  friends,  not  even  when  he  was 
a  boy.  His  love  of  books  and  his  passionate  love  of 
beauty  combined  with  his  poverty  to  hedge  him  about 
more  effectually  than  miles  of  desert  could  have  done. 
His  father  and  mother  had  lived  upon  fairly  good  terms 
with  all  their  neighbors,  but  had  formed  no  very  close 
bonds  with  any.  In  the  ordinary  New  England  town, 
neighborhood  never  means  much :  there  is  a  dismal  lack 
of  cohesion  to  the  relations  between  people.  The  com 
munity  is  loosely  held  together  by  a  few  accidental 
points  of  contact  or  common  interest.  The  individuality 
of  individuals  is,  by  a  strange  sort  of  paradox,  at  once 
respected  and  ignored.  This  is  indifference  rather  than 
consideration,  selfishness  rather  than  generosity;  it  is 
an  unsuspected  root  of  much  of  our  national  failure,  is 
responsible  for  much  of  our  national  disgrace.  Some 
day  there  will  come  a  time  when  it  will  have  crystal 
lized  into  a  national  apathy,  which  will  perhaps  cure 
itself,  or  have  to  be  cured,  as  indurations  in  the  body 
are,  by  sharp  crises  or  by  surgical  operations.  In  the 
mean  time,  our  people  are  living,  on  the  whole,  the  dull 
est  lives  that  are  lived  in  the  world,  by  the  so-called 
civilized ;  and  the  climax  of  this  dulness  of  life  is  to 
be  found  in  just  such  a  small  New  England  town  as 
Penfield,  the  one  of  which  we  are  now  speaking 


1 4  MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

When  it  gradually  became  clear  to  Stephen  that  he 
and  his  mother  were  unpopular  people,  his  first  feeling 
was  one  of  resentment,  his  second  of  calm  acquiescence  : 
acquiescence,  first,  because  he  recognized  in  a  measure 
the  justice  of  it,  —  they  really  did  not  care  for  their  neigh 
bors  ;  why  should  their  neighbors  care  for  them  ?  sec 
ondly,  a  diminished  familiarity  of  intercourse  would 
have  to  him  great  compensations.  There  were  few 
people  in  the  town,  whose  clothes,  whose  speech,  whose 
behavior,  did  not  jar  upon  his  nerves.  On  the  whole,  he 
would  be  better  content  alone ;  and  if  his  mother  could 
only  have  a  little  more  independence  of  nature,  more 
resource  within  herself,  "  The  less  we  see  of  them,  the 
better,"  said  Stephen,  proudly. 

He  had  yet  to  learn  the  lesson  which,  sooner  or  later, 
the  proudest,  most  scornful,  most  self-centred  of  human 
souls  must  learn,  or  must  die  of  loneliness  for  the  want 
of  learning,  that  humanity  is  one  and  indivisible ;  and 
the  man  who  shuts  himself  apart  from  his  fellows,  above 
all,  the  man  who  thus  shuts  himself  apart  because  he 
thinks  of  his  fellows  with  pitying  condescension  as> 
his  inferiors,  is  a  fool  and  a  blasphemer,  —  a  fool,  be 
cause  he  robs  himself  of  that  good-fellowship  which 
is  the  leaven  of  life  ;  a  blasphemer,  because  he  vir 
tually  implies  that  God  made  men  unfit  for  him  to 
associate  with.  Stephen  White  had  this  lesson  yet  to 
learn. 

The  practical  inconvenience  of  being  unpopular,  how 
ever,  he  began  to  feel  keenly,  as  month  after  month 
passed  by,  and  nobody  would  rent  the  other  half  of  the 


MERCY  PHILBRLCK'S  CHOICE.  1 5 

house  in  which  he  and  his  mother  lived.  Small  as  the 
rent  was,  it  was  a  matter  of  great  moment  to  them  ;  for 
his  earnings  as  clerk  and  copyist  were  barely  enough  to 
give  them  food.  He  was  still  retained  by  his  father's 
partner  in  the  same  position  which  he  had  held  during 
his  father's  life.  But  old  Mr.  Williams  was  not  wholly 
free  from  the  general  prejudice  against  Stephen,  as  an 
aristocratic  fellow,  given  to  dreams  and  fancies ;  and 
Stephen  knew  very  well  that  he  held  the  position  only 
as  it  were  on  a  sort  of  sufferance,  because  Mr.  Wil 
liams  had  loved  his  father.  Moreover,  law  business  in 
Penfield  was  growing  duller  and  duller.  A  younger  firm 
in  the  county  town,  only  twelve  miles  away,  was  robbing 
them  of  clients  continually ;  and  there  were  many  long 
days  during  which  Stephen  sat  idle  at  his  desk,  looking 
out  in  a  vague,  dreamy  way  on  the  street  below,  and 
wondering  if  the  time  were  really  coming  when  Mr.  Wil 
liams  would  need  a  clerk  no  longer ;  and,  if  it  did  come, 
what  he  could  possibly  find  to  do  in  that  town,  by  which 
he  could  earn  money  enough  to  support  his  mother.  At 
such  times,  he  thought  uneasily  of  the  possibility  of  fore 
closing  the  mortgage  on  the  old  Jacobs  house,  selling 
the  house,  and  reinvesting  the  money  in  a  more  advan 
tageous  way.  He  always  tried  to  put  the  thought  away 
from  him  as  a  dishonorable  one  ;  but  it  had  a  fatal  per 
sistency.  He  could  not  banish  it. 

"  Poor,  half-witted  old  woman  !  she  might  a  great  deal 
better  be  in  the  poor-house." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  lose  our  interest^ 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  her  along." 


16  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  The  mortgage  was  for  too  large  a  sum.  I  doubt  if 
the  old  house  could  sell  to-day  for  enough  to  clear  it, 
anyhow."  These  were  some  of  the  suggestions  which 
the  devil  kept  whispering  into  Stephen's  ear,  in  these 
long  hours  of  perplexity  and  misgiving.  It  was  a  ques 
tion  of  casuistry  which  might,  perhaps,  have  puzzled  a 
finer  moral  sense  than  Stephen's.  Why  should  he  treat 
old  Mrs.  Jacobs  with  any  more  consideration  than  he 
would  show  to  a  man  under  the  same  circumstances  ? 
To  be  sure,  she  was  a  helpless  old  woman  ;  but  so  was 
his  own  mother,  and  surely  his  first  duty  was  to  make 
her  as  comfortable  as  possible. 

Luckily  for  old  Mrs.  Jacobs,  a  tenant  appeared  for  the 
"south  wing."  A  friend  of  Stephen's,  a  young  clergy 
man  living  in  a  seaport  town  on. Cape  Cod,  had  written 
to  him,  asking  about  the  house,  which  he  knew  Stephen 
was  anxious  to  rent.  He  made  these  inquiries  on  behalf 
of  two  women,  parishioners  of  his,  who  were  obliged  to 
move  to  some  inland  town  on  account  of  the  elder 
woman's  failing  health.  They  were  mother  and  daugh 
ter,  but  both  widows.  The  younger  woman's  marriage 
had  been  a  tragically  sad  one,  her  husband  hav'ng  died 
suddenly,  only  a  few  days  after  their  marriage.  She  had 
returned  at  once  to  her  mother's  house,  widowed  at 
eighteen  ;  "  heart-broken,"  the  young  clergyman  wrote, 
"  but  the  most  cheerful  person  in  this  town,  —  the  most 
cheerful  person  I  ever  knew ;  her  smile  is  the  sunniest 
and  most  pathetic  thing  I  ever  saw." 

Stephen  welcomed  most  gladly  the  prospect  of  such 
tenants  as  these.  The  negotiations  were  soon  concluded  j 


MERCY  PHILBRICICS  CHOICE.  17 

and  at  the  time  of  the  beginning  of  our  story  the  two 
women  were  daily  expected. 

A  strange  feverishness  of  desire  to  have  them  arrive 
possessed  Stephen's  mind.  He  longed  for  it,  and  yet  he 
dreaded  it.  He  liked  the  stillness  of  the  house ;  he 
felt  a  sense  of  ownership  of  the  whole  of  it :  both  of 
these  satisfactions  were  to  be  interfered  with  now.  But 
he  had  a  singular  consciousness  that  some  new  element 
was  coming  into  his  life.  He  did  not  define  this ;  he 
hardly  recognized  it  in  its  full  extent ;  but  if  a  bystander 
could  have  looked  into  his  mind,  following  the  course 
of  his  reverie  distinctly,  as  an  unbiassed  outsider  might, 
he  would  have  said,  "  Stephen,  man,  what  is  this  ? 
What  are  these  two  women  to  you,  that  your  imagina 
tion  is  taking  these  wild  and  superfluous  leaps  into  their 
history  ? " 

There  was  hardly  a  possible  speculation  as  to  their 
past  history,  as  to  their  looks,  as  to  their  future  life 
under  his  roof,  that  Stephen  did  not  indulge  in,  as  he 
stood  leaning  with  his  folded  arms  on  the  gate,  in  the 
gray  November  twilight,  where  we  first  found  him.  His 
thoughts,  as  was  natural,  centred  most  around  the 
younger  woman. 

"  Poor  thing !  That  was  a  mighty  hard  fate.  Only 
nineteen  years  old  now,  —  six  years  younger  than  I  am  ; 
and  how  much  more  she  must  know  of  life  than  I  do. 
I  suppose  she  can't  be  a  lady,  exactly, — being  a  sea 
captain's  wife.  I  wonder  if  she 's  pretty  ?  I  think 
Harley  might  have  told  me  more  about  her  He  might 
know  I  'd  be  very  curious. 

B 


1 8  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  I  wonder  if  mother  '11  take  to  them  ?  If  she  does,  it 
will  be  a  great  comfort  to  her.  She  's  so  alone."  And 
Stephen's  face  clouded,  as  he  reflected  how  very  seldom 
the  monotony  of  the  invalid's  life  was  broken  now  by  a 
friendly  visit  from  a  neighbor. 

"  If  they  should  turn  out  really  social,  neighborly 
people  that  we  liked,  we  might  move  away  the  old  side 
board  from  before  the  hall  door,  and  go  in  and  out  that 
way,  as  the  Jacobses  used  to.  It  would  be  unlucky 
though,  I  reckon,  to  use  that  door.  I  guess  I  'II  plaster 
it  up  some  day."  Like  all  people  of  deep  sentiment, 
Stephen  had  in  his  nature  a  vein  of  something  which 
bordered  on  superstition. 

The  twilight  deepened  into  darkness,  and  a  cold  mist 
began  to  fall  in  slow,  drizzling  drops.  Still  Stephen 
stood,  absorbed  in  his  reverie,  and  unmindful  of  the 
chill. 

The  hall  door  opened,  and  an  old  woman  peered  out. 
She  held  a  lamp  in  one  hand  ;  the  blast  of  cold  air  made 
the  flame  flicker  and  flare,  and,  as  she  put  up  one  hand 
to  shade  it,  the  light  was  thrown  sharply  across  her 
features,  making  them  stand  out  like  the  distorted  feat 
ures  of  a  hideous  mask. 

"  Steve  1  Steve !  "  she  called,  in  a  shrill  voice.  "  Sup 
per  's  been  waitin'  more  'n  half  an  hour.  Lor's  sake, 
what 's  the  boy  thinkin'  on  now,  I  wonder  ? "  she  mut 
tered  in  an  impatient  lower  tone,  as  Stephen  turned  his 
head  slowly. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Marty.  Tell  my  mother  I  will  be  there  in 
a  moment,"  replied  Stephen,  as  he  walked  slowly  toward 


MEllCY  PIIILBRICK'S  CHOICE  19 

the  house ;  even  then  noting,  with  the  keen  and  relent 
less  glance  of  a  beauty- worshipper,  how  grotesquely 
ugly  the  old  woman's  wrinkled  face  became,  lighted  up 
by  the  intense  cross-light.  Old  Marty's  face  had  never 
looked  other  than  lovingly  into  Stephen's  since  he  first 
la)-  in  her  arms,  twenty-five  years  ago,  when  she  came, 
a  smooth-cheeked,  rosy  country-woman  of  twenty-five, 
to  nurse  his  mother  at  the  time  of  his  birth.  She  had 
never  left  the  home  since.  With  a  faithfulness  and 
devotion  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  existence  of 
rare  springs  of  each  in  her  own  nature,  surely  not  by 
any  uncommon  lovableness  in  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  White, 
or  by  any  especial  comforts  in  her  situation,  she  had 
stayed  on  a  quarter  of  a  century,  in  the  hard  position  of 
woman  of  all  work  in  a  poor  family.  She  worshipped 
Stephen,  and,  as  I  said,  her  face  had  never  once  looked 
other  than  lovingly  into  his ;  but  he  could  not  remember 
the  time  when  he  had  not  thought  her  hideous.  She 
had  a  big  brown  mole  on  her  chin,  out  of  which  grew  a 
few  bristling  hairs.  It  was  an  unsightly  thing,  no  doubt, 
on  a  woman's  chin  ;  and  sometimes,  when  Marty  was 
very  angry,  the  hairs  did  actually  seem  to  bristle,  as 
a  cat's  whiskers  do.  When  Stephen  could  not  speak 
plain,  he  used  to  point  his  little  dimpled  finger  at  this 
mole  and  say,  "  Do  doe  away,  —  doe  away ; "  and  to  this 
day  it  was  a  torment  to  him.  His  eyes  seemed  morbidly 
drawn  toward  it  at  times.  When  he  was  ill,  and  poor 
Marty  bent  over  his  bed,  ministering  to  him  as  no  one 
but  a  loving  old  nurse  can,  he  saw  only  the  mole,  ar.d 


20  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

had  to  make  an  effort  not  to  shrink  from  her.  To-night, 
as  she  lingered  on  the  threshold,  affectionately  waiting 
to  light  his  path,  he  was  thinking  only  of  her  ugliness. 
But  when  she  exclaimed,  with  the  privileged  irritability 
of  an  old  servant,  — 

"  Jest  look  at  your  feet,  Steve  !  they  're  wet  through, 
an'  your  coat  too,  a  standin'  out  in  that  drizzle.  Any 
body  'ud  think  you  hadn't  common  sense,"  he  replied 
with  perfect  good  nature,  and  as  heartily  loving  a  tone 
as  if  he  had  been  feasting  on  her  beauty,  instead  of 
writhing  inwardly  at  her  ugliness, — 

"  All  right,  Marty,  —  all  right.  I  'm  not  so  wet  as  I 
look.  I  '11  change  my  coat,  and  come  in  to  supper  in 
one  minute.  Don't  you  fidget  about  me  so,  good 
Marty."  Never  was  Stephen  heard  to  speak  discour 
teously  or  even  ungently  to  a  human  being.  It  would 
have  offended  his  taste.  It  was  not  a  matter  of  princi 
ple  with  him,  —  not  at  all :  he  hardly  ever  thought  of 
things  in  that  light.  A  rude  or  harsh  word,  a  loud, 
angry  tone,  jarred  on  his  every  sense  like  a  discord  in 
music,  or  an  inharmonious  color;  so  he  never  used 
them.  But  as  he  ran  upstairs,  three  steps  at  a  time, 
after  his  kind,  off-hand  words  to  Marty,  he  said  to  him 
self,  "  Good  heavens !  I  do  believe  Marty  gets  uglier 
every  day.  What  a  picture  Rembrandt  would  have 
made  of  her  old  face  peering  out  into  the  darkness 
there  to-night !  She  would  have  done  for  the  witch  of 
Endor,  watching  to  see  if  Samuel  were  coming  up." 
ind  as  he  went  down  more  slowly,  revolving  in  his 


MERCY  PRILBtaVK'S   CHOICE.  21 

mind  what  plausible  excuse  he  could  give  to  his  mother 
for  his  tardiness,  he  thought,  "  Well,  I  do  hope  she  '11 
be  at  least  tolerably  good-looking." 

Already  the  younger  of  the  two  women  who  were 
coming  to  live  under  his  roof  was  "she,"  in  his 
thoughts. 


22  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE 


CHAPTER  II. 

TN  the  mean  time,  the  young  widow,  Mercy  Philbrick, 
-*•  and  her  old  and  almost  childish  mother,  Mercy 
Carr,  were  coming  by  slow  and  tiring  stage  journeys  up 
the  dreary  length  of  Cape  Cod.  For  thirty  years  the 
elder  woman  nad  never  gone  out  of  sight  of  the  village 
graveyard  in  which  her  husband  and  four  children  were 
buried.  To  transplant  her  was  like  transplanting  an 
old  weather-beaten  tree,  already  dead  at  the  top.  Yet 
the  physicians  had  said  that  the  only  chance  of  prolong 
ing  her  life  was  to  take  her  away  from  the  fierce  winds 
of  the  sea.  She  herself,  while  she  loved  them,  shrank 
from  them.  They  seemed  to  pierce  her  lungs  like 
arrows  of  ice-cold  steel,  at  once  wounding  and  benumb 
ing.  Yet  the  habit  and  love  of  the  seashore  life  were  so 
strong  upon  her  that  she  would  never  have  been  able 
to  tear  herself  away  from  her  old  home,  had  it  not  been 
for  her  daughter's  determined  will.  Mercy  Philbrick 
was  a  woman  of  slight  frame,  gentle,  laughing,  brown 
eyes,  a  pale  skin,  pale  ash-brown  hair,  a  small  nose; 
a  sweet  and  changeful  mouth,  the  upper  lip  too  short, 
the  lower  lip  much  too  full ;  little  hands,  little  feet, 
little  wrists.  Not  one  indication  of  great  physical  or 
great  mental  strength  could  you  point  out  in  Mercy  Phil- 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  23 

brick ;  but  she  was  rarely  ill ;  and  she  had  never  been 
known  to  give  up  a  point,  small  or  great,  on  which  her 
vill  had  been  fully  set.  Even  the  cheerfulness  of  which 
her  minister,  Harley  Allen,  had  written  to  Stephen,  was 
very  largely  a  matter  of  will  with  Mercy.  She  confronted 
grief  as  she  would  confront  an  antagonist  force  of  any 
sort :  it  was  something  to  be  battled  with,  to  be  con 
quered.  Fate  should  not  worst  her :  come  what  might, 
she  would  be  the  stronger  of  the  two.  When  the  doctor 
said  to  her,  — 

"  Mrs.  Philbrick,  I  fear  that  your  mother  cannot  live 
through  another  winter  in  this  climate,"  Mercy  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  expression  of  terror.  In 
an  instant  more,  the  expression  had  given  place  to  one 
of  resolute  and  searching  inquiry. 

"  You  think,  then,  that  she  might  be  well  in  a  different 
climate  ? " 

"  Perhaps  not  well,  but  she  might  live  for  years  in  a 
dryer,  milder  air.  There  is  as  yet  no  actual  disease  in 
her  lungs,"  the  doctor  replied. 

Mercy  interrupted  him. 

"  You  think  she  might  live  in  comparative  comfort  ? 
It  would  not  be  merely  prolonging  her  life  as  a  suffer 
ing  invalid  ?  "  she  said  ;  adding  in  an  undertone,  as  if  to 
herself,  "  I  would  not  subject  her  to  that." 

"  Oh,  yes,  undoubtedly,"  said  the  doctor.  "  She  need 
never  die  of  consumption  at  all,  if  she  could  breathe 
only  inland  air.  She  will  never  be  strong  again,  but  she 
may  live  years  without  any  especial  liability  to  suffering." 

"Then  I  will  take  her  away  immediately,"  replied 


24  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

Mercy,  in  as  confident  and  simple  a  manner  as  if  she 
had  been  proposing  only  to  move  her  from  one  room 
into  another.  It  would  not  seem  so  easy  a  matter  for 
two  lonely  women,  in  a  little  Cape  Cod  village,  without 
a  male  relative  to  help  them,  and  with  only  a  few  thou 
sand  dollars  in  the  world,  to  sell  their  house,  break  up 
all  their  life-long  associations,  and  go  out  into  the  world 
to  find  a  new  home.  Associations  crystallize  around 
people  in  lonely  and  out  of  the  way  spots,  where  the 
days  are  all  alike,  and  years  follow  years  in  an  undeviat- 
ing  monotony.  Perhaps  the  process  might  be  more 
aptly  called  one  of  petrifaction.  There  are  pieces  of 
exquisite  agate  which  were  once  soft  wood.  Ages  ago, 
the  bit  of  wood  fell  into  a  stream,  where  the  water  was 
largely  impregnated  with  some  chemical  matter  which 
had  the  power  to  eat  out  the  fibre  of  the  wood,  and  in 
each  spot  thus  left  empty  to  deposit  itself  in  an  exact 
image  of  the  wood  it  had  eaten  away.  Molecule  by 
molecule,  in  a  mystery  too  small  for  human  eye  to  de 
tect,  even  had  a  watchful  human  eye  been  lying  in  wait 
to  observe,  the  marvellous  process  went  on  -}  until,  after 
the  lapse  of  nobody  knows  how  many  centuries,  the 
wood  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  lay  its  exact  image 
in  stone,  —  rings  of  growth,  individual  peculiarities  of 
structure,  knots,  broken  slivers  and  chips ;  color,  shape, 
all  perfect  Men  call  it  agatized  wood,  by  a  feeble 
effort  to  translate  the  mystery  of  its  existence  ;  but  it  is 
not  wood,  except  to  the  eye.  To  the  touch,  and  in  fact, 
it  is  stone,  —  hard,  cold,  unalterable,  eternal  stone. 
The  slow  wear  of  monotonous  life  in  a  set  groove  does 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  2$ 

very  much  such  a  thing  as  this  to  human  beings.  To 
the  eye  they  retain  the  semblance  of  other  beings  ;  but 
try  them  by  touch,  that  is  by  contact  with  people,  with 
events  outside  their  groove,  and  they  are  stone,  —  aga- 
tized  men  and  women.  Carry  them  where  you  please, 
after  they  have  reached  middle  or  old  age,  and  they  will 
not  change.  There  is  no  magic  water,  a  drop  of  which 
will  restore  to  them  the  vitality  and  pliability  of  their 
youth.  They  last  well,  such  people,  —  as  well,  almost,  as 
agatized  wood  on  museum  shelves;  and  the  most  you 
can  do  for  them  is  to  keep  them  well  dusted. 

Old  Mrs.  Carr  belonged,  in  a  degree,  to  this  order  of 
persons.  Only  the  coming  of  Mercy's  young  life  into 
the  feeble  current  of  her  own  had  saved  it  from  entire 
stagnation.  But  she  was  already  past  middle  age  when 
Mercy  was  born  ;  and  the  child  with  her  wonderful  joy- 
ousness,  and  the  maiden  with  her  wondrous  cheer,  came 
too  late  to  undo  what  the  years  had  done.  The  most 
they  could  do  was  to  interrupt  the  process,  to  stay  it  at 
that  point.  The  consequence  was  that  Mrs.  Carr  at 
sixty-five  was  a  placid  sort  of  middle-aged  old  lady, 
very  pleasant  to  talk  with  as  you  would  talk  with  a  child, 
very  easy  to  take  care  of  as  you  would  take  care  of  a 
child,  but,  for  all  purposes  of  practical  management  cr 
efficient  force,  as  helpless  as  a  baby. 

When  Mercy  told  her  what  the  doctor  had  said  of  her 
health,  and  that  they  must  sell  the  house  and  move 
away  before  the  winter  set  in,  she  literally  opened  her 
mouth  too  wide  to  speak  for  a  minute,  and  then  gasped 
out  like  a  frightened  child,  — 
2 


26  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  O  Mercy,  don't  let 's  do  it !  " 

As  Mercy  went  on  explaining  to  her  the  necessity  of 
the  change,  and  the  arrangements  she  proposed  to  make, 
the  poor  old  woman's  face  grew  longer  and  longer  ;  but, 
some  time  before  Mercy  had  come  to  the  end  of  her 
explanation,  the  childish  soul  had  accepted  the  whole 
thing  as  fixed,  had  begun  already  to  project  itself  in 
childish  imaginations  of  detail ;  and  to  Mercy's  infinite 
relief  and  half-sad  amusement,  when  she  ceased  speak 
ing,  her  mother's  first  words  were,  eagerly,  — 

"  Well,  Mercy,  if  we  go  'n  the  stage,  'n'  I  s'pose  we 
shall  hev  to,  don't  ye  think  my  old  brown  merino  '11  do 
to  wear  ? " 

Fortune  favored  Mercy's  desire  to  sell  the  house. 
Stephen's  friend,  the  young  minister,  had  said  to  him 
self  many  times,  as  he  walked  up  to  its  door  between 
the  quaint,  trim  beds  of  old-fashioned  pinks  and  ladies' 
delights  and  sweet-williams  which  bordered  the  little 
path,  "  This  is  the  only  house  in  this  town  I  want  to 
live  in."  As  soon  as  he  heard  that  it  was  for  sale,  he 
put  on  his  hat,  and  fairly  ran  to  buy  it.  Out  of  breath, 
he  took  Mercy's  hands  in  his,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  O  Mercy,  do  you  really  want  to  sell  this  house  ?  " 

Very  unworldly  were  this  young  man  and  this  young 
woman,  in  the  matter  of  sale  and  purchase.  Adepts  in 
traffic  would  have  laughed,  had  they  overheard  the  con 
versation. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Allen,  I  do.  I  must  sell  it ;  and 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  sell  it  for  a  great  deal  less 
than  it  is  worth,"  replied  Mercy. 


ME HC Y  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  2J 

"  No,  you  sha'n't,  Mercy !  I  '11  buy  it  myself.  I  Ve 
always  wanted  it.  But  why  in  the  world  do  you  want 
to  sell  it?  Where  will  you  live  yourself?  There  isn't 
another  house  in  the  village  you  'd  like  half  so  well.  Is 
it  too  large  for  you  ? "  continued  Mr.  Allen,  hurriedly. 
Then  Mercy  told  him  all  her  plans,  and  the  sad  neces 
sity  for  her  making  the  change.  The  young  minister 
did  not  speak  for  some  moments.  He  seemed  lost  in 
thought.  Then  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  I  do  believe  it 's  a  kind  of  Providence  !  "  and  drew 
a  letter  from  his  pocket,  which  he  had  only  two  days 
before  received  from  Stephen  White.  "  Mercy,"  he 
went  on,  "  I  believe  I  've  got  the  very  thing  you  want 
right  here  ; "  and  he  read  her  the  concluding  paragraph 
of  the  letter,  in  which  Stephen  had  said :  "  Meantime,  I 
am  waiting  as  patiently  as  I  can  for  a  tenant  for  the 
other  half  of  this  house.  It  seems  to  be  very  hard  to 
find  just  the  right  sort  of  person.  I  cannot  take  in  any 
of  the  mill  operatives.  They  are  noisy  and  untidy ;  and 
the  bare  thought  of  their  being  just  the  other  side  of 
the  partition  would  drive  my  mother  frantic.  I  wish  so 
much  I  could  get  some  people  in  that  would  be  real 
fiiends  for  her.  She  is  very  lonely.  She  never  leaves 
her  bed  ;  and  I  have  to  be  away  all  day." 

Mercy's  face  lighted  up.  She  liked  the  sound  of 
each  word  that  this  unknown  man  wrote.  Very  eagerly 
she  questioned  Mr.  Allen  about  the  town,  its  situation, 
its  healthfulness,  and  so  forth.  As  he  gave  her  detail 
after  detail,  she  nodded  her  head  with  increasing  em 
phasis,  and  finally  exclaimed :  "  That  is  precisely  such 


28  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

a  spot  as  Dr.  Wheeler  said  we  ought  to  go  to.  I  think 
you  're  right,  Mr.  Allen.  It 's  a  Providence.  And  I  'd 
be  so  glad  to  be  good  to  that  poor  old  woman,  too. 
What  a  companion  she  'd  be  for  mother !  that  is,  if  I 
could  keep  them  from  comparing  notes  for  ever  about 
their  diseases.  That 's  the  worst  of  putting  invalid  old 
women  together,"  laughed  Mercy  with  a  kindly,  merry 
little  laugh. 

Mr.  Allen  had  visited  Penfield  only  once.  When  he 
and  Stephen  were  boys  at  school  together,  he  had  passed 
one  of  the  short  vacations  at  Stephen's  house.  He 
remembered  very  little  of  Stephen's  father  and  mother, 
or  of  their  way  of  life.  He  was  at  the  age  when  house 
and  home  mean  little  to  boys,  except  a  spot  where 
shelter  and  food  are  obtained  in  the  enforced  intervals 
between  their  hours  of  out-door  life.  But  he  had  never 
forgotten  the  grand  out-look  and  off-look  from  the 
town.  Lying  itself  high  up  on  the  western  slope  of 
what  must  once  have  been  a  great  river  terrace,  it  com 
manded  a  view  of  a  wide  and  fertile  meadow  country,  near 
enough  to  be  a  most  beautiful  feature  in  the  landscape, 
but  far  enough  away  to  prevent  any  danger  from  its 
moisture.  To  the  south  and  south-west  rose  a  fine 
range  of  mountains,  bold  and  sharp-cut,  though  they 
were  not  very  high,  and  were  heavily  wooded  to  their 
summits.  The  westernmost  peak  of  this  range  was  sep 
arated  from  the  rest  by  a  wide  river,  which  had  cut  its 
way  through  in  some  of  those  forgotten  ages  when,  if 
we  are  to  believe  the  geologists,  every  thing  was  topsy 
turvy  on  this  now  meek  and  well-regulated  planet 


MERCY  PUILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  29 

The  town,  although,  as  I  said,  it  lay  on  the  western 
slope  of  a  great  river  terrace,  held  in  its  site  three 
distinctly  marked  plateaus.  From  the  two  highest  of 
these,  the  views  were  grand.  It  was  like  living  on  a 
mountain,  and  yet  there  was  the  rich  beauty  of  coloring 
of  the  river  interval.  Nowhere  in  all  New  England 
was  there  a  fairer  country  than  this  to  look  upon,  nor  a 
goodlier  one  in  which  to  live. 

Mr.  Allen's  enthusiasm  in  describing  the  beauties  of 
the  place,  and  Mercy's  enthusiasm  in  listening,  were 
fast  driving  out  of  their  minds  the  thought  of  the  sale, 
which  had  been  mentioned  in  the  beginning  of  their 
conversation.  Mercy  was  the  first  to  recall  it.  She 
blushed  and  hesitated,  as  she  said,  — 

"  But,  Mr.  Allen,  we  can't  go,  you  know,  until  I  have 
sold  this  house.  Did  you  really  want  to  buy  it?  And 
how  much  do  you  think  I  ought  to  ask  for  it  ? " 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure !  "  exclaimed  the  young  min 
ister.  "  Dear  me,  what  children  we  are  !  Mercy,  I  don't 
honestly  know  what  you  ought  to  ask  for  the  house. 
I  '11  find  out." 

"  Deacon  Jones  said  he  thought,  taking  in  the  cran 
berry  meadow,  it  was  worth  three  thousand  dollars," 
said  Mercy ;  "  but  that  seems  a  great  deal  to  me : 
though  not  in  a  good  cranberry  year,  perhaps,"  addec. 
she,  ingenuously,  "for  last  year  the  cranberries  brought 
us  in  seventy-five  dollars,  besides  paying  for  the  pick- 
ing." 

"  And  the  meadow  ought  to  go  with  the  house,  by  all 
means,"  said  Mr.  Allen.  "  I  want  it  for  color  in  the  back- 


30  MERCY  PHIL  BRICK'S   CHOICE. 

ground,  when  I  look  at  the  house  as  I  come  down  from 
the  meeting-house  hill.  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  any 
body  else  own  the  canvas  on  which  the  picture  of  my 
home  will  be  oftenest  painted  for  my  eyes.  I  '11  give 
you  three  thousand  dollars  for  the  house,  Mercy.  I  can 
only  pay  two  thousand  down,  and  pay  you  interest  on 
the  other  thousand  for  a  year  or  two.  I  '11  soon  clear  it 
off.  Will  that  do  ? " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Allen.  It  will  more 
than  do,"  said  poor  Mercy,  who  could  not  believe  in  such 
sudden  good  fortune ;  "  but  do  you  think  you  ought  to 
buy  it  so  quick  ?  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  bring  so  much 
money  as  that.  I  had  not  asked  anybody  except  Dea 
con  Jones." 

Mr.  Allen  laughed.  "  If  you  don't  look  out  for  your 
self  sharper  than  this,  Mercy,"  he  said,  "  in  the  new 
place  where  you  're  going  to  live,  you  '11  fare  badly. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  true,  as  you  say,  that  nobody  else 
would  give  you  three  thousand  dollars  for  the  house, 
because  nobody  might  happen  to  want  to  live  in  it. 
But  Deacon  Jones  knows  better  than  anybody  else  the 
value  of  property  here,  and  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  give 
you  the  price  he  set  on  the  place.  I  had  laid  by  this 
two  thousand  dollars  towards  my  house ;  and  I  could 
not  build  such  a  house  as  this,  to-day,  for  three  thousand 
dollars.  But  really,  Mercy,  you  must  look  out  for  your 
self  better  than  this." 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mercy,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  with  an  earnest  gaze,  as  if  she  were  reading  a 
writing  a  great  way  off,  —  "I  don't  know  about  that.  I 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE  31 

doubt  very  much  if  looking  out  for  one's  self,  as  you  call 
it,  is  the  best  way  to  provide  for  one's  self." 

That  very  night  Mr.  Allen  wrote  to  Stephen ;  in  two 
weeks,  the  whole  matter  was  settled,  and  Mercy  and  her 
mother  had  set  out  on  their  journey.  They  carried  with 
them  but  one  small  valise.  The  rest  of  their  simple 
wardrobe  had  gone  in  boxes,  with  the  furniture,  by  sail 
ing  vessel,  to  a  city  which  was  within  three  hours  by  rail 
of  their  new  home.  This  was  the  feature  of  the  situa 
tion  which  poor  Mrs.  Carr  could  not  accept.  In  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  she  fully  believed  that  they  would 
never  again  see  one  of  those  boxes.  The  contents  of 
some  which  she  had  herself  packed  were  of  a  most 
motley  description.  In  the  beginning  of  the  breaking 
up,  while  Mercy  was  at  her  wits'  end  with  the  unwonted 
perplexities  of  packing  the  whole  belongings  of  a  house, 
her  mother  had  tormented  her  incessantly  by  bringing 
to  her  every  few  minutes  some  utterly  incongruous  and 
frequently  worthless  article,  and  begging  her  to  put  it 
in  at  once,  whatever  she  might  be  packing.  Any  one 
who  has  ever  packed  for  a  long  journey,  with  an  eager 
and  excited  child  running  up  every  minute  with  more 
and  more  cumbrous  toys,  dogs,  cats,  Noah's  arks,  and  so 
on,  to  be  put  in  among  books  and  under-clothing,  can 
imagine  Mercy's  despair  at  her  mother's  restless  activity. 

"  Oh,  mother,  not  in  this  box !  Not  in  with  the 
china  ! "  would  groan  poor  Mercy,  as  her  mother  ap 
peared  with  armfuls  of  ancient  relics  from  the  garret, 
such  as  old  umbrellas,  bonnets,  bundles  of  old  news 
papers,  broken  spinning-wheels,  andirons,  and  rolls  ol 


32  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


remains  of  old  wall-paper,  the  last  of  which  had  disap 
peared  from  the  walls  of  the  house,  long  before  Mercy 
was  born.  No  old  magpie  was  ever  a  more  indiscrimi 
nate  hoarder  than  Mrs.  Carr  had  been  ;  and,  among  all 
her  hoardings,  there  was  none  more  amusing  than  her 
hoarding  of  old  wall-papers.  A  scrap  a  foot  square 
seemed  to  her  too  precious  to  throw  away.  "  It  might 
be  jest  the  right  size  to  cover  suthin'  with,"  she  would 
say ;  and,  to  do  her  justice,  she  did  use  in  the  course  of 
a  year  a  most  unexampled  amount  of  such  fragments. 
She  had  a  mania  for  papering  and  repapering  and  paper 
ing  again  every  shelf,  every  box,  every  corner  she  could 
get  hold  of.  The  paste  and  brush  were  like  toys  to  her ; 
and  she  delighted  in  gay  combinations,  sticking  on  old 
bits  of  borders  in  fantastic  ways,  in  most  inappropriate 
situations. 

"  I  do  believe  you  '11  paper  the  pigsty  next,  mother," 
said  Mercy  one  day  :  "  there  's  nothing  left  you  can 
paper  except  that."  Mrs.  Carr  took  the  suggestion  in 
perfect  good  faith,  and  convulsed  Mercy  a  few  days 
later  by  entering  the  kitchen  with  the  following  extraor 
dinary  remark,  — 

"  I  don't  believe  it 's  worth  while  to  paper  the  pigsty. 
I  've  been  looking  at  it,  and  the  boards  they  're  so 
rough,  the  paper  wouldn't  lay  smooth,  anyhow;  and  I 
couldn't  well  get  at  the  inside  o'  the  roof,  while  the  pig's 
in.  It  would  look  real  neat,  though.  I  'd  like  to  do  it." 

Mercy  endured  her  mother's  help  in  packing  for  one 
day.  Then  the  desperateness  of  the  trouble  suggested 
a  remedy.  Selecting  a  large,  strong  box,  she  had  it  car 
ried  into  the  garret 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  33 

"There,  mother,"  she  said,  "now  you  can  pack  in 
this  box  all  the  old  lumber  of  all  sorts  which  you  want 
to  carry.  And,  if  this  box  isn't  large  enough,  you  shall 
have  two  more.  Don't  tire  yourself  out :  there  's  plenty 
of  time  ;  and,  if  you  don't  get  it  all  packed  by  the  time  I 
am  done,  I  can  help  you." 

Then  Mercy  went  downstairs  feeling  half-guilty,  as 
one  does  when  one  has  practised  a  subterfuge  on  a 
child. 

How  many  times  that  poor  old  woman  packed  and 
unpacked  that  box,  nobody  could  dream.  All  day  long 
she  trotted  up  and  down,  up  and  down ;  ransacking 
closets,  chests,  barrels ;  sorting  and  resorting,  and 
forgetting  as  fast  as  she  sorted.  Now  and  then  she 
would  come  across  something  which  would  rouse  an 
electric  chain  of  memories  in  the  dim  chambers  of  hei 
old,  worn-out  brain,  and  she  would  sit  motionless  for  a 
long  time  on  the  garret  floor,  in  a  sort  of*trance.  Once 
Mercy  found  her  leaning  back  against  a  beam,  with  her 
knees  covered  by  a  piece  of  faded  blue  Canton  crape,  on 
which  her  eyes  were  fastened.  She  did  not  speak  till 
Mercy  touched  her  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  my  !  how  you  scared  me,  child  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  D'  ye  see  this  ere  blue  stuff  ?  I  hed  a  gown  o'  thet 
once  :  it  was  drefful  kind  o'  clingy  stuff.  I  never  felt 
exzackly  decent  in  it,  somehow :  it  hung  a  good  deal 
like  a  night-gown d  ;  but  your  father  he  bought  it  for  the 
color.  He  traded  off  some  shells  for  it  in  some  o'  them 
t'urrin  places.  You  wouldn't  think  it  now,  but  it  used  to 
be  jest  the  color  o'  a  robin's  egg  or  a  light-blue  '  bache 
2*  o 


34  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE- 

lor's  button ; '  and  your  father  he  used  to  stick  one  o* 
them  in  my  belt  whenever  they  was  in  blossom,  when  I 
hed  the  gownd  on.  He  hed  a  heap  o'  notions  about 
things  matchin'.  He  brought  me  that  gownd  the  v'yage 
he  made  jest  afore  Caleb  was  born  ;  and  I  never  hed  a 
chance  to  wear  it  much,  the  children  come  so  fast.  It 
warn't  re'ly  worn  at  all,  'n'  I  hed  it  dyed  black  for  veils 
arterwards." 

It  was  from  this  father  who  used  to  "  stick  "  pale-blue 
flowers  in  his  wife's  belt,  and  whose  love  of  delicate 
fabrics  and  tints  made  him  courageous  enough  to  lead 
her  draped  in  Canton  crape  into  the  unpainted  Cape 
Cod  meeting-house,  where  her  fellow-women  bristled  in 
homespun,  that  Mercy  inherited  all  the  artistic  side  of 
her  nature.  She  knew  this  instinctively,  and  all  her 
tenderest  sentiment  centred  around  the  vague  memory 
she  retained  of  a  tall,  dark-bearded  man,  who,  when  she 
was  only  three  years  old,  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  called 
her  his  "little  Mercy,"  and  kissed  her  over  and  over 
again.  She  was  most  loyally  affectionate  to  her  mother, 
but  the  sentiment  was  not  a  wholly  filial  one.  There 
was  too  much  reversal  of  the  natural  order  of  the 
protector  and  the  protected  in  it ;  and  her  life  was  on 
too  different  a  plane  of  thought,  feeling,  and  interest 
from  the  life  of  the  uncultured,  undeveloped,  childish, 
old  woman.  Yet  no  one  who  saw  them  together  would 
have  detected  any  trace  of  this  shortcoming  in  Mercy's 
feeling  towards  her  mother.  She  had  in  her  nature  a  fine 
and  lofty  fibre  of  loyalty  which  could  never  condescend 
even  to  parley  with  a  thought  derogatory  to  its  object ; 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  35 

was  lifted  above  all  consciousness  of  the  possibility  of 
any  other  course.  This  is  a  sort  of  organic  integrity 
of  affection,  which  is  to  those  who  receive  it  a  fewer 
of  strength,  that  is  impregnable  to  all  assault  except  that 
of  death  itself.  It  is  a  rare  type  of  love,  the  best  the 
world  knows ;  but  the  men  and  the  women  whose  hearts 
are  capable  of  it  are  often  thought  not  to  be  of  a  loving 
nature.  The  cheaper  and  less  lasting  types  of  love  aie 
so  much  louder  of  voice  and  readier  of  phrase,  as  in 
cloths  cheap  fabrics,  poor  to  wear,  are  often  found 
printed  in  gay  colors  and  big  patterns. 

The  day  before  they  left  home,  Mercy,  becoming 
alarmed  by  a  longer  interval  than  usual  without  any 
sound  from  the  garret,  where  her  mother  was  still  at 
work  over  her  fantastic  collections  of  old  odds  and 
ends,  ran  up  to  see  what  it  meant. 

Mrs.  Carr  was  on  her  knees  before  a  barrel,  which  had 
held  rags  and  papers.  The  rags  and  papers  were 
spread  around  her  on  the  floor.  She  had  leaned  her 
head  on  the  barrel,  and  was  crying  bitterly. 

"  Mother !  mother  !  what  is  the  matter  ? "  exclaimed 
Mercy,  really  alarmed ;  for  she  had  very  few  times  in 
her  life  seen  her  mother  cry.  Without  speaking,  Mrs. 
Carr  held  up  a  little  piece  of  carved  ivory.  It  was  of  a 
creamy  yellow,  and  shone  like  satin :  a  long  shred  of 
frayed  pink  ribbon  hung  from  it.  As  she  held  it  up 
to  Mercy,  a  sunbeam  flashed  in  at  the  garret  window, 
and  fell  across  it,  sending  long  glints  of  light  to  right 
and  left. 

"  What  a  lovely  bit  of  carving !     What  is  it,  mother ! 


36  MERCY  PUILBRICK'S   CUOILtu. 

Why  does  it  make  you  cry  ?  "  asked  Mercy,  stretching 
out  her  hand  to  take  the  ivory. 

"  It 's  Caley's  whistle,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Carr.  "  We  allus 
thought  Patience  Swift  must  ha'  took  it.  She  nussed  me 
a  spell  when  he  was  a  little  feller,  an'  jest  arter  she 
went  away  we  missed  the  whistle.  Your  father  he 
brought  that  hum  the  same  v'yage  I  told  ye  he  brought 
the  blue  crape.  He  knowed  I  was  a  expectin'  to  be  sick, 
and  he  was  drefful  afraid  he  wouldn't  get  hum  in  time  ; 
but  he  did.  He  jest  come  a  sailin'  into  th'  harbor,  with 
every  mite  o'  sail  the  old  brig  'd  carry,  two  days  afore 
Caley  was  born.  An'  the  next  mornin',  —  oh,  dear  me  ! 
it  don't  seem  no  longer  ago  'n  yesterday,  —  while  he  was 
a  dressin',  an'  I  lay  lookin'  at  him,  he  tossed  that  little 
thing  over  to  me  on  the  bed,  'n'  sez  he,  — 

"  '  'T  '11  be  a  boy,  Mercy,  I  know  'twill ;  an'  here  's  his 
bos'u'n's  whistle  all  ready  for  him,'  an'  that  night  he 
bought  that  very  yard  o'  pink  rebbin,  and  tied  it  on  him 
self,  and  laid  it  in  the  upper  drawer  into  one  o'  the  little 
pink  socks  I  'd  got  all  ready.  Oh,  it  don't  seem  any 
longer  ago  'n  yesterday !  An'  sure  enough  it  was  a  boy ; 
an'  your  father  he  allus  used  to  call  him  '  Bos'u'n,'  and 
he  'd  stick  this  ere  whistle  into  his  mouth  an'  try  to 
make  him  blow  it  afore  he  was  a  month  old.  But  by 
the  time  he  was  nine  months  old  he  'd  blow  it  ez  loud  ez 
I  could.  And  his  father  he  'd  just  lay  back  'n  his  chair, 
and  laugh  'n'  laugh,  'n'  call  out, '  Blow  away,  my  hearty  ! ' 
Oh,  my !  it  don't  seem  any  longer  ago  'n  yesterday.  I 
wish  I  'd  ha'  known.  I  wa'n't  never  friends  with  Pa 
tience  any  more  arter  that.  I  never  misgave  me  but 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  37 

what  she  'd  got  the  whistle.  It  was  such  a  curious  cut 
thing,  and  cost  a  heap  o'  money.  Your  father  wouldn't 
never  tell  what  he  gin  for  't.  Oh,  my  !  it  don't  seem  any 
longer  ago  'n  yesterday,"  and  the  old  woman  wiped  her 
eyes  on  her  apron,  and  struggling  up  on  her  feet  took 
the  whistle  again  from  Mercy's  hands. 

"  How  old  would  my  brother  Caley  be  now,  if  he  had 
lived,  mother  ? "  said  Mercy,  anxious  to  bring  her  mother 
gently  back  to  the  present. 

"  Well,  let  me  see,  child.  Why,  Caley  —  Caley,  he  'd 
be —  How  old  am  I,  Mercy  ?  Dear  me  !  hain't  I  lost 
my  memory,  sure  enough,  except  about  these  ere  old 
things  ?  They  seem  's  clear  's  daylight." 

"  Sixty-five  last  July,  mother,"  said  Mercy.  "  Don't 
you  know  I  gave  you  your  new  specs  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  child,  —  yes.  Well,  I  'm  sixty-five,  be  I  ? 
Then  Caley,  —  Caley,  he  'd  be,  let  me  see  —  you  reckon 
it,  Mercy.  I  wuz  goin'  on  nineteen  when  Caley  was 
born." 

"Why,  mother,"  exclaimed  Mercy,  "is  it  really  so 
long  ago  ?  Then  my  brother  Caleb  would  be  forty-six 
years  old  now  ! "  and  Mercy  took  again  in  her  hand  the 
yellow  ivory  whistle,  and  ran  her  fingers  over  the  faded 
and  frayed  pink  ribbon,  and  looked  at  it  with  an  inde 
finable  sense  of  its  being  a  strange  link  between  her 
and  a  distant  past,  which,  though  she  had  never  shared 
it,  belonged  to  her  by  right.  Hardly  thinking  what  she 
did,  she  raised  the  whistle  to  her  lips,  and  blew  a  loud, 
shrill  whistle  on  it.  Her  mother  started.  "  O  Mercy, 
don't,  don't !  "  she  cried.  "  I  can't  bear  to  hear  it." 


38  MERCY  PHILBEICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  Now,  mother,  don't  you  be  foolish,"  said  Mercy, 
cheerily.  "  A  whistle  's  a  whistle,  old  or  young,  and 
made  to  be  whistled  with.  We  '11  keep  this  to  amuse 
children  with  :  you  carry  it  in  your  pocket.  Perhaps 
we  shall  meet  some  children  on  the  journey ;  and  it  '11  be 
so  nice  for  you  to  pop  this  out  of  your  pocket,  and  give 
it  to  them  to  blow." 

"  So  it  will,  Mercy,  I  declare.  That  'ud  be  real  nice. 
You  're  a  master-piece  for  thinkin'  o'  things."  And, 
easily  diverted  as  a  child,  the  old  woman  dropped  the 
whistle  into  her  deep  pocket,  and,  forgetting  all  her 
tears,  returned  to  her  packing. 

Not  so  Mercy.  Having  attained  her  end  of  cheering 
her  mother,  her  own  thoughts  reverted  again  and  again 
all  day  long,  and  many  times  in  after  years,  whenever 
she  saw  the  ivory  whistle,  to  the  strange  picture  of  the 
lonely  old  woman  in  the  garret  coming  upon  her  first 
born  child's  first  toy,  lost  for  forty  years ;  the  pict 
ure,  too,  of  the  history  of  the  quaint  piece  of  carving 
itself ;  the  day  it  was  slowly  cut  and  chiselled  by  a 
patient  and  ill-paid  toiler  in  some  city  of  China ;  its 
voyage  in  the  keeping  of  the  ardent  young  husband 
hastening  home  to  welcome  his  first  child  ;  its  forty 
years  of  silence  and  darkness  in  the  old  garret ;  and 
then  its  return  to  life  and  light  and  sound,  in  the  hands 
and  lips  of  new  generations  of  children. 

The  journey  which  Mercy  had  so  much  dreaded  was 
unexpectedly  pleasant.  Mrs.  Carr  proved  an  admirable 
traveller  with  the  exception  of  her  incessant  and  garru 
lous  anxiety  about  the  boxes  which  had  been  left  behind 


MEHCf  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  39 

on  the  deck  of  the  schooner  "  Maria  Jane,"  and  could  not 
by  any  possibility  overtake  them  for  three  weeks  to 
come.  She  was,  in  fact,  so  much  of  a  child  that  she 
was  in  a  state  of  eager  delight  at  every  new  scene  and 
person.  Her  childishness  proved  the  best  of  claims 
upon  every  one's  courtesy.  Everybody  was  ready  to  help 
"  that  poor  sweet  old  woman  ; "  and  she  was  so  simply 
and  touchingly  grateful  for  the  smallest  kindness  that 
everybody  who  had  helped  her  once  wanted  to  help 
her  again.  More  than  one  of  their  fellow-travellers 
remembered  for  a  long  time  the  bright-faced  young 
woman  with  her  childish  mother,  and  wondered  where 
they  could  have  been  going,  and  what  was  to  be  their 
life. 

On  the  fourth  day,  just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  behind 
the  hills,  they  entered  the  beautiful  river  interval, 
through  which  the  road  to  their  new  home  lay.  Mercy 
sat  with  her  face  almost  pressed  against  the  panes  of  the 
car-windows,  eagerly  scanning  every  feature  of  the  land 
scape,  to  her  so  new  and  wonderful.  To  the  dweller 
by  the  sea,  the  first  sight  of  mountains  is  like  the  sight 
of  a  new  heavens  and  a  new  earth.  It  is  a  revelation  of 
a  new  life.  Mercy  felt  strangely  stirred  and  overawed. 
She  looked  around  in  astonishment  at  her  fellow-passen 
gers,  not  one  of  whom  apparently  observed  that  on  either 
hand  were  stretching  away  to  the  east  and  the  west 
fields  that  were,  even  in  this  late  autumn,  like  carpets  of 
gold  and  green.  Through  these  fertile  meadows  ran  a 
majestic  river,  curving  and  doubling  as  if  loath  to  leave 
such  fair  shores.  The  wooded  mountains  changed  fast 


40  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

from  green  to  purple,  from  purple  to  dark  gray ;  and 
almost  before  Mercy  had  comprehended  the  beauty  of 
the  region,  it  was  lost  from  her  sight,  veiled  in  the 
twilight's  pale,  indistinguishable  tints.  Her  mother  was 
fast  asleep  in  her  seat.  The  train  stopped  every  few 
moments  at  some  insignificant  station,  of  which  Mercy 
could  see  nothing  but  a  narrow  platform,  a  dim  lantern, 
and  a  sleepy-looking  station-master.  Slowly,  one  or  two 
at  a  time,  the  passengers  disappeared,  until  she  and  her 
mother  were  left  alone  in  the  car.  The  conductor  and 
the  brakeman,  as  they  passed  through,  looked  at  them 
with  renewed  interest:  it  was  evident  now  that  they  were 
going  through  to  the  terminus  of  the  road. 

"  Goin'  through,  be  ye  ?  "  said  the  conductor.  "  It  '11 
be  dark  when  we  get  in  ;  an'  it 's  beginnin'  to  rain.  'S 
anybody  comin'  to  meet  ye  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mercy,  uneasily.  "  Will  there  not  be 
carriages  at  the  depot  ?  We  are  going  to  the  hotel.  I 
believe  there  is  but  one." 

"  Well,  there  may  be  a  kerridge  down  to-night,  an' 
there  may  not :  there  's  no  knowin'.  Ef  it  don't  rain  too 
hard,  I  reckon  Seth  '11  be  down." 

Mercy's  sense  of  humor  never  failed  her.  She  laughed 
Heartily,  as  she  said, — 

"  Then  Seth  stays  away,  does  he,  on  the  nights  when 
he  would  be  sure  of  passengers  ?  " 

The  conductor  laughed  too,  as  he  replied,  — 

"  Well,  't  isn't  quite  so  bad  's  that.  Ye  see  this  here 
road  's  only  a  piece  of  a  road.  It 's  goin'  up  through  to 
connect  with  the  northern  roads ;  but  they  've  come  to  a 


MERCY  PHILBEICK'S   CHOICE. 


stand-still  for  want  o'  funds,  an'  more  'n  half  the  time  I 
don*t  carry  nobody  over  this  last  ten  miles.  Most  o' 
the  people  from  our  town  go  the  other  way,  on  the  river 
road.  It  's  shorter,  an'  some  cheaper.  There  isn't 
much  travellin'  done  by  our  folks,  anyhow.  We  're  a 
mighty  dead  an'  alive  set  up  here.  Goin'  to  stay  a 
spell  ?  "  he  continued,  with  increasing  interest,  as  he 
looked  longer  into  Mercy's  face. 

"  Probably,"  said  Mercy,  in  a  grave  tone,  suddenly 
recollecting  that  she  ought  not  to  talk  with  this  man  as 
if  he  were  one  of  her  own  village  people.  The  conduc 
tor,  sensitive  as  are  most  New  England  people,  spite  of 
their  apparent  familiarity  of  address,  to  the  least  rebuff, 
felt  the  change  in  Mercy's  tone,  and  walked  away, 
thinking  half  surlily,  "  She  needn't  put  on  airs.  A 
schoolma'am,  I  reckon.  Wonder  if  it  can  be  her  that  's 
going  to  teach  the  Academy  ?  " 

When  they  reached  the  station,  it  was,  as  the  con 
ductor  had  said,  very  dark  ;  and  it  was  raining  hard. 
For  the  first  time,  a  sense  of  her  unprotected  loneliness 
fell  upon  Mercy's  heart.  Her  mother,  but  half-awake, 
clung  nervously  to  her,  asking  purposeless  and  inco 
herent  questions.  The  conductor,  still  surly  from  his 
fancied  rebuff  at  Mercy's  hands,  walked  away,  and 
took  no  notice  of  them.  The  station-master  was  no 
where  to  be  seen.  The  two  women  stood  huddling 
together  under  one  umbrella,  gazing  blankly  about 
them. 

"  Is  this  Mrs.  Philbrick  ?  "  came  in  clear,  firm  tones, 
out  of  the  darkness  behind  them;  and,  in  a  second 


42  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

more,  Mercy  had  turned  and  looked  up  into  Stephen 
White's  face. 

"  Oh,  how  good  you  were  to  come  and  meet  us ! " 
exclaimed  Mercy.  "You  are  Mr.  Allen's  friend,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  curtly.  "  But  I  did  not  come 
to  meet  you.  You  must  not  thank  me.  I  had  business 
here.  However,  I  made  the  one  carriage  which  the 
town  boasts,  wait,  in  case  you  should  be  here.  Here  it 
is !  "  And,  before  Mercy  had  time  to  analyze  or  even  to 
realize  the  vague  sense  of  disappointment  she  felt  at 
his  words,  she  found  herself  and  her  mother  placed  in 
the  carriage,  and  the  door  shut. 

"  Your  trunks  cannot  go  up  until  morning,"  he  said, 
speaking  through  the  carriage  window  ;  "  but,  if  you  will 
give  me  your  checks,  I  will  see  that  they  are  sent." 

"  We  have  only  one  small  valise,"  said  Mercy :  "  that 
was  under  our  seat.  The  brakeman  said  he  would  take 
it  out  for  us  ;  but  he  forgot  it,  and  so  did  I." 

The  train  was  already  backing  out  of  the  station. 
Stephen  smothered  some  very  unchivalrous  words  on 
his  lips,  as  he  ran  out  into  the  rain,  overtook  the  train, 
and  swung  himself  on  the  last  car,  in  search  of  the 
"  one  small  valise  "  belonging  to  his  tenants.  It  was 
a  very  shabby  valise  :  it  had  made  many  a  voyage  with 
its  first  owner,  Captain  Carr.  It  was  a  very  little 
valise :  it  could  not  have  held  one  gown  of  any  of  the 
modern  fashions. 

"  Dear  me,"  thought  Stephen,  as  he  put  it  into  the 
carriage  at  Mercy's  feet,  "  what  sort  of  women  are 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  43 

these  I  Ve  taken  under  my  roof !  I  expect  they  '11  be 
very  unpleasing  sights  to  my  eyes.  I  did  hope  she  'd 
be  good-looking."  How  many  times  in  after  years  did 
Stephen  recall  with  laughter  his  first  impressions  of 
Mercy  Philbrick,  and  wonder  how  he  could  have  argued 
so  unhesitatingly  that  a  woman  who  travelled  with  only 
one  small  valise  could  not  be  good-looking. 

"  Will  you  come  to  the  house  to-morrow  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Mercy,  "  not  for  three  or  four 
weeks  yet.  Our  furniture  will  not  be  here  under  that 
time." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Stephen,  "  I  had  not  thought  of  that. 
I  will  call  on  you  at  the  hotel,  then,  in  a  day  or 
two." 

His  adieus  were  civil,  but  only  civil :  that  most 
depressing  of  all  things  to  a  sensitive  nature,  a  kindly 
indifference,  was  manifest  in  every  word  he  said,  and  in 
every  tone  of  his  voice. 

Mercy  felt  it  to  the  quick ;  but  she  was  ashamed  of 
herself  for  the  feeling.  "  What  business  had  I  to  expect 
that  he  was  going  to  be  our  friend  ? "  she  said  in  her 
heart.  "  We  are  only  tenants  to  him." 

"What  a  kind-spoken  young  man  he  is,  to  be  sure, 
Mercy ! "  said  Mrs.  Carr. 

So  all-sufficient  is  bare  kindliness  of  tone  and  speech 
to  the  unsensitive  nature. 

"Yes,  mother,  he  was  very  kind,"  said  Mercy;  "but 
I  don't  think  we  shall  ever  know  him  very  well." 

"  Why,  Mercy,  why  not  ? "  exclaimed  her  mother.  "I 
should  say  he  was  most  uncommon  friendly  for  a  stran- 


44  MERCY  PHILBRICICS   CHOICE. 

ger,  running  back  after  our  valise  in  the  rain,  and  a 
goin'  to  call  on  you  to  oncet." 

Mercy  made  no  reply.  The  carriage  rolled  along 
over  the  rough  and  muddy  road.  It  was  too  dark  to 
see  any  thing  except  the  shadowy  black  shapes  of 
houses,  outlined  on  a  still  deeper  blackness  by  the  light 
streaming  from  their  windows.  There  is  no  sight  in  the 
world  so  hard  for  lonely,  homeless  people  to  see,  as  the 
sight  of  the  lighted  windows  of  houses  after  nightfall. 
Why  houses  should  look  so  much  more  homelike,  so 
much  more  suggestive  of  shelter  and  cheer  and  com 
panionship  and  love,  when  the  curtains  are  snug-drawn 
and  the  doors  shut,  and  nobody  can  look  in,  though  the 
lights  of  fires  and  lamps  shine  out,  than  they  do  in 
broad  daylight,  with  open  windows  and  people  coming 
and  going  through  open  doors,  and  a  general  air  of  com 
radeship  and  busy  living,  it  is  hard  to  see.  But  there 
is  not  a  lonely  vagabond  in  the  world  who  does  not 
know  that  they  do.  One  may  see  on  a  dark  night  many 
a  wistful  face  of  lonely  man  or  lonely  woman,  hurrying 
resolutely  past,  and  looking  away  from,  the  illumined 
houses  which  mean  nothing  to  them  except  the  keen 
reminder  of  what  they  are  without.  Oh,  the  homeless 
people  there  are  in  this  world  !  Did  anybody  ever 
think  to  count  up  the  thousands  there  are  in  every  great 
city,  who  live  in  lodgings  and  not  in  homes  ;  from  the 
luxurious  lodger  who  lodges  in  the  costliest  rooms  of 
the  costliest  hotel,  down  to  the  most  poverty-stricken 
lodger  who  lodges  in  a  corner  of  the  poorest  tenement- 
house  ?  Homeless  all  of  them  ;  their  common  vaga'  'md- 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  45 

age  is  only  a  matter  of  degrees  of  decency.  All  honoi 
to  the  bravery  of  those  who  are  homeless  because  they 
must  be,  and  who  make  the  best  of  it.  But  only  scorn 
and  pity  for  those  who  are  homeless  because  they  choose 
to  be,  and  are  foolish  enough  to  like  it. 

Mercy  had  never  before  felt  the  sensation  of  being  a 
homeless  wanderer.  She  was  utterly  unprepared  for  it. 
All  through  the  breaking  up  of  their  home  and  the  prep 
arations  for  their  journey,  she  had  been  buoyed  up  by 
excitement  and  anticipation.  Much  as  she  had  grieved 
to  part  from  some  of  the  friends  of  her  early  life,  and  to 
leave  the  old  home  in  which  she  was  born,  there  was 
still  a  certain  sense  of  elation  in  the  prospect  of  new 
scenes  and  new  people.  She  had  felt,  without  realizing 
it,  a  most  unreasonable  confidence  that  it  was  to  be  at 
once  a  change  from  one  home  to  another  home.  In  her 
native  town,  she  had  had  a  position  of  importance. 
Their  house  was  the  best  house  in  the  town  ;  judged  by 
the  simple  standards  of  a  Cape  Cod  village,  they  were 
well-to-do.  Everybody  knew,  and  everybody  spoke 
with  respect  and  consideration,  of  "  Old  Mis'  Carr,"  or, 
as  she  was  perhaps  more  often  called,  "  Widder  Carr." 
Mercy  had  not  thought  —  in  her  utter  inexperience  of 
change,  it  could  not  have  occurred  to  her — what  a  very 
different  thing  it  was  to  be  simply  unknow.n  and  poor 
people  in  a  strange  place.  The  sense  of  all  this  smote 
upon  her  suddenly  and  keenly,  as  they  jolted  along  in  the 
noisy  old  carriage  on  this  dark,  rainy  night.  Stephen 
White's  indifferent  though  kindly  manner  first  brought 
to  her  the  thought,  or  rather  the  feeling,  of  this.  Each 


46  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

new  glimmer  of  the  home-lights  deepened  her  sense  of 
desolation.  Every  gust  of  rain  that  beat  on  the  carriage 
roof  and  windows  made  her  feel  more  and  more  like  an 
outcast.  She  never  forgot  these  moments.  She  used  to 
say  that  in  them  she  had  lived  the  whole  life  of  the 
loneliest  outcast  that  was  ever  born.  Long  years  after 
ward,  she  wrote  a  poem,  called  "  The  Outcast,"  which 
was  so  intense  in  its  feeling  one  could  have  easily  be 
lieved  that  it  was  written  by  Ishmael.  When  she  was 
asked  once  how  and  when  she  wrote  this  poem,  she 
replied,  "  I  did  not  write  it :  I  lived  it  one  night  in  enter 
ing  a  strange  town."  In  vain  she  struggled  against  the 
strange  and  unexpected  emotion.  A  nervous  terror  of 
arriving  at  the  hotel  oppressed  her  more  and  more ; 
although,  thanks  to  Harley  Allen's  thoughtfulness,  she 
knew  that  their  rooms  were  already  engaged  for  them. 
She  felt  as  if  she  would  rather  drive  on  and  on,  in  all 
the  darkness  and  rain,  no  matter  where,  all  night  long, 
rather  than  enter  the  door  of  the  strange  and  public 
house,  in  which  she  must  give  her  name  and  her  mother's 
name  on  the  threshold. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  she  moved  so  slowly  tc 
alight  that  her  mother  exclaimed  petulantly,  — 

"  Dear  me,  child,  what 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  Ain't 
you  goin'  to  git  out  ?  Ain't  this  the  tavern  ? " 

"  Yes,  mother,  this  is  our  place,"  said  Mercy,  in  a  low 
voice,  unlike  her  usual  cheery,  ringing  tones,  as  she 
assisted  her  mother  down  the  clumsy  steps  from  the  old- 
fashioned,  high  vehicle.  "  They  're  expecting  us  :  it  is 
all  right."  But  her  voice  and  face  belied  her  words. 


MERCY  PBILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  47 

She  moved  all  through  the  rest  of  the  evening  like  one 
in  a  dream.  She  said  little,  but  busied  herself  in  making 
her  mother  as  comfortable  as  it  was  possible  to  be  in 
the  dingy  and  unattractive  little  rooms ;  and,  as  soon  as 
the  tired  old  woman  had  fallen  asleep,  Mercy  sat  down 
on  the  floor  by  the  window,  and  leaning  her  head  on  thfl 
sill  cried  hard. 


48  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

r  I  "'HE  next  morning  the  sun  shone,  and  Mercy  was 
-*-  herself  again.  Her  depression  of  the  evening 
before  seemed  to  her  so  causeless,  so  inexplicable,  that 
she  recalled  it  almost  with  terror,  as  one  might  a  tempo 
rary  insanity.  She  blushed  to  think  of  her  unreasona 
ble  sensitiveness  to  the  words  and  tones  of  Stephen 
White.  "  As  if  it  made  any  sort  of  difference  to  mother 
and  to  me  whether  he  were  our  friend  or  not.  He  can 
do  as  he  likes.  I  hope  I  '11  be  out  when  he  calls," 
thought  Mercy,  as  she  stood  on  the  hotel  piazza  after 
breakfast,  scanning  with  a  keen  and  eager  glance  every 
feature  of  the  scene.  To  her  eyes,  accustomed  to  the 
broad,  open,  leisurely  streets  of  the  Cape  Cod  hamlet, 
its  isolated  little  houses  with  their  trim  flower-beds  in 
front  and  their  punctiliously  kept  fences  and  gates, 
this  somewhat  untidy  and  huddled  town  looked  unat 
tractive.  The  hotel  stood  on  the  top  of  one  of  the 
plateaus  of  which  I  spoke  in  the  last  chapter.  The 
ground  fell  away  slowly  to  the  east  and  to  the  south. 
A  poorly  kept,  oblong-shaped  "  common,"  some  few  acres 
in  extent,  lay  just  in  front  of  the  hotel :  it  had  once 
been  fenced  in ;  but  the  fences  were  sadly  out  of  repair, 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  49 

and  two  cows  were  grazing  there  this  morning,  as  com 
posedly  as  if  there  were  no  town  ordinance  forbidding 
all  running  of  cattle  in  the  streets.  A  few  shabby  old 
farm-wagons  stood  here  and  there  by  these  fences  ;  the 
sleepy  horses  which  had  drawn  them  thither  having 
been  taken  out  of  the  shafts,  and  tethered  in  some 
mysterious  way  to  the  hinder  part  of  the  wagons.  A 
court  was  in  session ;  and  these  were  the  wagons  of 
lawyers  and  clients,  alike  humble  in  their  style  of  equi 
page.  On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  hotel,  down  the  east 
ern  slope  of  the  hill  ran  an  irregular  block  of  brick 
buildings,  no  two  of  a  height  or  size.  The  block  had 
burned  down  in  spots  several  times,  and  each  owner 
had  rebuilt  as  much  or  as  little  as  he  chose,  which  had 
resulted  in  as  incoherent  a  bit  of  architecture  as  is  often 
seen.  The  general  effect,  however,  was  of  a  tendency 
to  a  certain  parallelism  with  the  ground  line:  so  that 
the  block  itself  seemed  to  be  sliding  down  hill ;  the  roof 
of  the  building  farthest  east  being  not  much  above  the 
level  of  the  first  story  windows  in  the  building  farthest 
west.  To  add  to  the  queerness  of  this  "  Brick  Row," 
as  it  was  called,  the  ingenuity  of  all  the  sign-painters 
of  the  region  had  been  called  into  requisition.  Signs 
alphabetical,  allegorical,  and  symbolic  ;  signs  in  black  on 
white,  in  red  on  black,  in  rainbow  colors  on  tin ;  signs 
high  up,  and  signs  low  down ;  signs  swung,  and  signs 
posted,  —  made  the  whole  front  of  the  Row  look  at  a  little 
distance  like  a  wall  of  advertisements  of  some  travelling 
menagerie.  There  was  a  painted  yellow  horse  with  a 
fiery  red  mane,  which  was  the  pride  of  the  heart  of 

3  D 


5O  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

Seth  Quin,  the  livery-stable  keeper ;  and  a  big  black 
dog's  head  with  a  gay  collar  of  scarlet  and  white  mo 
rocco,  which  was  supposed  to  draw  the  custom  of  all 
owners  of  dogs  to  "John  Locker,  harness-maker." 
There  was  a  barber's  pole,  and  an  apothecary's  shop 
with  the  conventional  globes  of  mysterious  crimson  and 
blue  liquids  in  the  window ;  and,  to  complete  the  list  of 
the  decorations  of  this  fantastic  front,  there  had  been 
painted  many  years  ago,  high  up  on  the  wall,  in  large  and 
irregular  letters,  the  sign  stretching  out  over  two-thirds 
of  the  row,  "  Miss  Orra  White's  Seminary  for  Young 
Ladies."  Miss  Orra  White  had  been  dead  for  several 
years ;  and  the  hall  in  which  she  had  taught  her  school, 
having  passed  through  many  successive  stages  of  degra* 
dation  in  its  uses,  had  come  at  last  to  be  a  lumber- 
room,  from  which  had  arisen  many  a  waggish  saying  as 
to  the  similarity  between  its  first  estate  and  its  last. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  common,  opposite  the  hotel, 
was  a  row  of  dwelling-houses,  which  owing  to  the  steep 
descent  had  a  sunken  look,  as  if  they  were  slipping  into 
their  own  cellars.  The  grass  was  too  green  in  their  yards, 
and  the  thick,  matted  plantain-leaves  grew  on  both 
edges  of  the  sodden  sidewalk. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  thought  Mercy  to  herself,  "  I  am  sure  I 
hope  our  house  is  not  there."  Then  she  stepped  down 
from  the  high  piazza,  and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the 
open  space,  looking  up  toward  the  north.  She  could  only 
see  for  a  short  distance  up  the  winding  road.  A  high, 
wood -crowned  summit  rose  beyond  the  houses,  which 
seemed  to  be  built  higher  and  higher  on  the  slope,  and 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  5  * 

to  be  much  surrounded  by  trees.  A  street  led  off  to  the 
west  also :  this  was  more  thickly  built  up.  To  the  south, 
there  was  again  a  slight  depression;  and  the  houses, 
although  of  a  better  order  than  those  on  the  eastern 
side  of  the  common,  had  somewhat  of  the  same  sunken 
air.  Mercy's  heart  turned  to  the  north  with  a  sudden 
and  instinctive  recognition.  "I  am  sure  that  is  the 
right  part  of  the  town  for  mother,"  she  said.  "  If  Mr. 
White's  house  is  down  in  that  hollow,  we  '11  not  live  in 
it  long."  She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  study  of  the 
place,  and  in  her  conjectures  as  to  their  home,  that  she 
did  not  realize  that  she  herself  was  no  ordinary  sight  in 
that  street :  a  slight,  almost  girlish  figure,  in  a  plain, 
straight,  black  gown  like  a  nun's,  with  one  narrow  fold 
of  transparent  white  at  her  throat,  tied  carelessly  by 
long  floating  ends  of  black  ribbon  ;  her  wavy  brown  hair 
blown  about  her  eyes  by  the  wind,  her  cheeks  flushed  with 
the  keen  air,  and  her  eyes  bright  with  excitement. 
Mercy  could  not  be  called  even  a  pretty  woman ;  but 
she  had  times  and  seasons  of  looking  beautiful,  and  this 
was  one  of  them.  The  hostler,  who  was  rubbing  down 
his  horses  in  the  door  of  the  barn,  came  out  wide- 
mouthed,  and  exclaimed  under  his  breath, — 

"  Gosh !  who  's  she  ?  "  with  an  emphasis  on  that  femi 
nine,  personal  pronoun  which  was  all  the  bitterer  slur 
on  the  rest  of  womankind  in  that  neighborhood,  that  he 
was  so  unconscious  of  the  reflection  it  conveyed.  The 
cook  and  the  stable-boy  also  came  running  to  the 
kitchen  door,  on  hearing  the  hostler's  exclamation  ;  and 
they,  too,  stood  gazing  at  the  unconscious  Mercy,  and 


52  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


each,  in  their  own  way,  paying  tribute  to  her  appear 
ance. 

"  That  's  the  gal  thet  corned  last  night  with  her 
mother.  Darned  sight  better-lookin'  by  daylight  than 
she  wuz  then  !  "  said  the  stable-boy. 

"  Hm  !  boys  an'  men,  ye  're  all  alike,  —  all  for  looks," 
said  the  cook,  who  was  a  lean  and  ill-favored  spinster, 
at  least  fifty  years  old.  "  The  gal  isn't  any  thin'  so 
amazin'  for  good  looks,  's  I  can  see  ;  but  she  's  got 
mighty  sarchin'  eyes  in  her  head.  I  wonder  if  she  's  a 
lookin'  for  somebody  they  're  expectin'." 

"  Steve  White  he  was  with  'em  down  to  the  depot," 
replied  the  stable-boy.  "  Seth  sed  he  handed  on  'em 
into  the  kerridge,  's  if  they  were  regular  topknots,  sure 
enough." 

"  Hm !  Seth  Quin  's  a  fool,  'n'  always  wuz,"  replied 
the  cook,  with  a  seemingly  uncalled-for  acerbity  of  tone. 
"  I  've  allus  observed  that  them  that  hez  the  most  to 
say  about  topknots  hez  the  least  idea  of  what  topknots 
really  is.  There  ain't  a  touch  o'  topknot  about  that  ere 
girl :  she  's  come  o'  real  humbly  people.  Anybody  with 
half  an  eye  can  see  that.  Good  gracious  !  I  believe 
she  's  goin'  to  stand  still,  and  let  old  man  Wheeler  run 
over  her.  Look  out  there,  look  out,  gal ! "  screamed  the 
cook,  and  pounded  vigorously  with  her  rolling-pin  on 
the  side  of  the  door  to  rouse  Mercy's  attention.  Mercy 
turned  just  in  time  to  confront  a  stout,  red-faced,  old 
gentleman  with  a  big  cane,  who  was  literally  on  the 
point  of  walking  over  her.  He  was  so  near  that,  as  slu' 
turned,  he  started  back  as  if  she  had  hit  him  in  the 
breast. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  OH01VE.  53 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  God  bless  my  soul,  miss  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  in  his  excitement,  striking  his  cane  rapidly 
against  the  ground.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  beg  par 
don,  miss.  Bad  habit  of  mine,  very  bad  habit,  —  walk 
along  without  looking.  Walked  on  a  dog  the  other  day ; 
hurt  dog ;  tumbled  down  myself,  nearly  broke  my  leg. 
Bad  habit,  miss,  —  bad  habit;  too  old  to  change,  too 
old  to  change.  Beg  pardon,  miss." 

The  old  gentleman  mumbled  these  curt  phrases  in  a 
series  of  inarticulate  jerks,  as  if  his  vocal  apparatus 
were  wound  up  and  worked  with  a  crank,  but  had  grown 
so  rusty  that  every  now  and  then  a  wheel  would  catch 
on  a  cog.  He  did  not  stand  still  for  a  moment,  but 
kept  continually  stepping,  stepping,  without  advancing 
or  retreating,  striking  his  heavy  cane  on  the  ground  at 
each  step,  as  if  beating  time  to  his  jerky  syllables.  He 
had  twinkling  blue  eyes,  which  were  half  hid  under 
heavy,  projecting  eyebrows,  and  shut  up  tight  whenever 
he  laughed.  His  hair  was  long  and  thin,  and  white  as 
spun  glass.  Altogether,  except  that  he  spoke  with  an 
unmistakable  Yankee  twang,  and  wore  unmistakable 
Yankee  clothes,  you  might  have  fancied  that  he  was  an 
ancient  elf  from  the  Hartz  Mountains. 

Mercy  could  not  refrain  from  laughing  in  his  face,  as 
she  retreated  a  few  steps  towards  the  piazza,  and  said,  — 

"  It  is  I  who  ought  to  beg  your  pardon.  I  had  no 
business  to  be  standing  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the 
highway  like  a  post." 

"  Sensible  young  woman !  sensible  young  woman  I 
God  bless  my  soul !  don't  know  your  face,  don't  know 


54  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

your  face,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  peering  out  from 
under  the  eaves  of  his  eyebrows,  and  scrutinizing  Mercy 
as  a  child  might  scrutinize  a  new-comer  into  his  father's 
house.  One  could  not  resent  it,  any  more  than  one 
could  resent  the  gaze  of  a  child.  Mercy  laughed  again. 

"  No,  sir,  you  don't  know  my  face.  I  only  came  last 
night,"  she  said. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  God  bless  my  soul !  Fine 
young  woman  !  fine  young  woman  !  glad  to  see  you,  — 
glad,  glad.  Girls  good  for  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  at 
all,  nowadays,"  jerked  on  the  queer  old  gentleman,  still 
shifting  rapidly  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  beating 
time  continuously  with  his  cane,  but  looking  into  Mercy's 
face  with  so  kindly  a  smile  that  she  felt  her  heart  warm 
with  affection  towards  him. 

"  Your  father  come  with  you  ?  Come  to  stay  ?  I  'd  like 
to  know  ye,  child.  Like  your  face, — good  face,  good 
face,  very  good  face,"  continued  the  inexplicable  old 
man.  "  Don't  like  many  people.  People  are  wolves, 
wolves,  wolves.  'D  like  to  know  you,  child.  Good  face, 
good  face." 

"  Can  he  be  crazy  ? "  thought  Mercy.  But  the  smile 
and  the  honest  twinkle  of  the  clear  blue  eye  were  enough 
to  counterbalance  the  incoherent  talk :  the  old  man  was 
not  crazy,  only  eccentric  to  a  rare  degree.  Mercy  felt 
instinctively  that  she  had  found  a  friend,  and  one  whom 
she  could  trust  and  lean  on. 

"  Thank  vou,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  very  glad  you  like 
my  face.  I  like  yours,  too, — you  look  so  merry.  I 
think  my  mother  and  I  will  be  very  glad  to  know  you- 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  55 

We  have  come  to  live  here  in  half  of  Mr.  Stephen  White's 
house." 

"  Merry,  merry  ?  Nobody  calls  me  merry.  That 's  a 
mistake,  child,  —  mistake,  mistake.  Mistake  about  the 
house,  too,  —  mistake.  Stephen  White  hasn't  any  house, 
—  no,  no,  hasn't  any  house.  My  name  's  Wheeler, 
Wheeler.  Good  enough  name.  '  Old  Man  Wheeler  * 
some  think  's  better.  I  hear  'em  :  my  cane  don't  make 
so  much  noise  but  I  hear  'em.  Ha !  ha !  wolves, 
wolves,  wolves !  People  are  all  wolves,  all  alike,  all 
alike.  Got  any  money,  child  ? "  With  this  last  ques 
tion,  the  whole  expression  of  his  face  changed  ;  the  very 
features  seemed  to  shrink ;  his  eyes  grew  dark  and 
gleaming  as  they  fastened  on  Mercy's  face. 

Even  this  did  not  rouse  Mercy's  distrust.  There  was 
something  inexplicable  in  the  affectionate  confidence  she 
felt  in  this  strange,  old  man. 

"  Only  a  little,  sir,"  she  said.  "  We  are  not  rich ;  we 
have  only  a  little." 

"  A  little  's  a  good  deal,  good  deal,  good  deal.  Take 
care  of  it,  child.  People  '11  git  it  away  from  you. 
They  're  nothing  but  wolves,  wolves,  wolves ; "  and,  say 
ing  these  words,  the  old  man  set  off  at  a  rapid  pace 
down  the  street,  without  bidding  Mercy  good-morning. 

As  she  stood  watching  him  with  an  expression  of  ever 
increasing  astonishment,  he  turned  suddenly,  planted 
his  stick  in  the  ground,  and  called, — 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  God  bless  my  soul !  Bad  habit, 
bad  habit.  Never  do  say  good-morning,  —  bad  habit. 
Too  old  to  change,  too  old  to  change.  Bad  habit,  bad 


$6  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

habit."     And  with  a  nod  to  Mercy,  but  still  not  saying 
good-morning,  he  walked  away. 

Mercy  ran  into  the  house,  breathless  with  amusement 
and  wonder,  and  gave  her  mother  a  most  graphic  ac 
count  of  this  strange  interview. 

"  But,  for  all  his  queerness,  I  like  him,  and  I  believe 
he  '11  be  a  great  friend  of  ours,'*  she  said,  as  she  finished 
her  story. 

Mrs.  Carr  was  knitting  a  woollen  stocking.  She  had 
been  knitting  woollen  stockings  ever  since  Mercy  could 
remember.  She  always  kept  several  on  hand  in  differ 
ent  stages  of  incompletion :  some  that  she  could  knit  on 
in  the  dark,  without  any  counting  of  stitches ;  others 
that  were  in  the  process  of  heeling  or  toeing,  and  re 
quired  the  closest,  attention.  She  had  been  settinfe 
heel  while  Mercy  was  speaking,  and  did  not  reply  for  c. 
moment.  Then,  pushing  the  stitches  all  into  a  compact 
bunch  in  the  middle  of  one  needle,  she  let  her  work  fall 
into  her  lap,  and,  rolling  the  disengaged  knitting-needle 
back  and  forth  on  her  knee  to  brighten  it,  looked  at 
Mercy  reflectively. 

"Mercy,"  said  she,  "queer  people  allers  do  take  to 
each  other.  I  don't  believe  he  's  a  bit  queerer  'n  you 
are,  child."  And  Mrs.  Carr  laughed  a  little  laugh,  ball 
pride  and  half  dissatisfaction.  "  You  're  jest  like  yuur 
father :  he  'd  make  friends  with  a  stranger,  any  day.  on 
the  street,  in  two  jiffeys,  if  he  took  a  likin'  to  him  ;  and 
there  might  be  neighbors  a  livin'  right  long  'side  on  us, 
for  years  an'  years,  thet  he  'd  never  any  more  'n  jest 
pass  the  time  o'  day  with,  'n'  he  wa'n't  a  bit  stuck  up, 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  57 

either.  I  used  ter  ask  him,  often  'n'  often,  what  made 
him  so  offish  to  sum  folks,  when  I  knew  he  hadn't  the 
least  thing  agin  'em ;  and  he  allers  said,  sez  he,  '  Well, 
I  can't  tell  ye  nothin'  about  it,  only  jest  this  is  the  way 
't  is :  I  can't  talk  to  'em ;  they  sort  o'  shet  me  up,  like. 
I  don't  feel  nateral,  somehow,  when  they  're  round  ! ' " 

"  O  mother ! "  exclaimed  Mercy,  "  I  think  I  must 
be  just  like  father.  That  is  exactly  the  way  I  feel  so 
often.  When  I  get  with  some  people,  I  feel  just  as  if 
I  had  been  changed  into  somebody  else.  I  can't  bear 
to  open  my  mouth.  It  is  like  a  bad  dream,  when  you 
dream  you  can't  move  hand  nor  foot,  all  the  time  they  're 
in  the  room  with  me." 

"Well,  I  thank  the  Lord,  I  don't  never  take  such 
notions  about  people,"  said  Mrs.  Carr,  settling  herself 
back  in  her  chair,  and  beginning  to  make  her  needles 
fly.  "  Nobody  don't  never  trouble  me  much,  one  way 
or  the  other.  For  my  part,  I  think  folks  is  alike  as 
peas.  We  shouldn't  hardly  know  'em  apart,  if  't  wa'n't 
for  their  faces." 

Mercy  was  about  to  reply,  "Why,  mother,  you  just 
said  that  I  was  queer;  and  this  old  man  was  queer; 
and  my  father  must  have  been  queer,  too."  But  she 
glanced  at  the  placid  old  face,  and  forbore.  Then* 
was  a  truth  as  well  as  an  untruth  in  the  inconsistent 
sayings,  and  both  lay  too  deep  for  the  childish  intellect 
to  grasp. 

Mercy  was  impatient  to  go  at  once  to  see  their  new 
home  ;  but  she  could  not  induce  her  mother  to  leave  the 
house. 


$8  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

11 0  Mercy !  "  she  exclaimed  pathetically,  "  ef  yer 
knew  what  a  comfort 't  was  to  me  jest  to  set  still  in  a 
chair  once  more.  It  seems  like  heaven,  arter  them 
pesky  joltin'  cars.  I  ain't  in  no  hurry  to  see  the  house. 
It  can't  run  away,  I  reckon ;  and  we  're  sure  of  it,  ain't 
we  ?  There  ain't  any  thing  that 's  got  to  be  done,  is 
there?"  she  asked  nervously. 

"Oh,  no,  mother.  It  is  all  sure.  We  have  leased 
the  house  for  one  year ;  and  we  can't  move  in  until  our 
furniture  comes,  of  course.  But  I  do  long  to  see  what 
the  place  is  like,  don't  you  ? "  replied  Mercy,  pleadingly. 

"No,  no,  child.  Time  enough  when  we  move  in. 
'T  ain't  going  to  make  any  odds  what  it 's  like.  We  're 
goin'  to  live  in  it,  anyhow.  You  jest  go  by  yourself,  ef 
you  want  to  so  much,  an'  let  me  set  right  here.  It  don't 
seem  to  me  's  I  '11  ever  want  to  git  out  o'  this  chair." 
At  last,  very  unwillingly,  late  in  the  afternoon,  Mercy 
went,  leaving  her  mother  alone  in  the  hotel. 

Without  asking  a  question  of  anybody,  she  turned 
resolutely  to  the  north. 

"  Even  if  our  house  is  not  on  this  street,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  I  am  going  to  see  those  lovely  woods ; "  and  she 
walked  swiftly  up  the  hill,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
glowing  dome  of  scarlet  and  yellow  leaves  which 
crowned  it.  The  trees  were  in  their  full  autumnal 
splendor :  maples,  crimson,  scarlet,  and  yellow ;  chest 
nuts,  pale  green  and  yellow;  beeches,  shining  golden 
brown ;  and  sumacs  in  fiery  spikes,  brighter  than  all 
the  rest.  There  were  also  tall  pines  here  and  there  in 
the  grove,  and  their  green  furnished  a  fine  dark  back- 


MERCY  PIllLBRICK'S  CHOICE.  59 

ground  for  the  gay  colors.  Mercy  had  often  read  of  the 
glories  of  autumn  in  New  England's  thickly  wooded 
regions  ;  but  she  had  never  dreamed  that  it  could  be 
so  beautiful  as  this.  Rows  of  young  maples  lined  the 
street  which  led  up  to  this  wooded  hill.  Each  tree 
seemed  a  full  sheaf  of  glittering  color;  and  yet  the 
path  below  was  strewn  thick  with  fallen  leaves  no  less 
bright.  Mercy  walked  lingeringly,  each  moment  stop 
ping  to  pick  up  some  new  leaf  which  seemed  brighter 
than  all  the  rest.  In  a  very  short  time,  her  hands  were 
too  full ;  and  in  despair,  like  an  over-Jaden  child,  she 
began  to  scatter  them  along  the  way.  She  was  so  ab 
sorbed  in  her  delight  in  the  leaves  that  she  hardly 
looked  at  the  houses  on  either  hand,  except  to  note  with 
an  unconscious  satisfaction  that  they  were  growing 
fewer  and  farther  apart,  and  that  every  thing  looked 
more  like  country  and  less  like  town  than  it  had  done 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  hotel. 

Presently  she  came  to  a  stretch  of  stone  wall,  partly 
broken  down,  in  front  of  an  old  orchard  whose  trees 
were  gnarled  and  moss-grown.  Blackberry-vines  had 
flung  themselves  over  this  wall,  in  and  out  among  the 
stones.  The  leaves  of  these  vines  were  almost  as  bril 
liant  as  the  leaves  of  the  maple-trees.  They  were  of 
all  shades  of  red,  up  to  the  deepest  claret ;  they  were 
of  light  green,  shading  into  yellow,  and  curiously  mottled 
with  tiny  points  of  red ;  all  these  shades  and  colors 
sometimes  being  seen  upon  one  long  runner.  The  effect 
of  these  wreaths  and  tangles  of  color  upon  the  oid, 
gray  stones  was  so  fine  that  Mercy  stood  still  and  in 


6O  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

voluntarily  exclaimed  aloud.  Then  she  picked  a  few  of 
the  most  beautiful  vines,  and,  climbing  up  on  the  wall, 
sat  down  to  arrange  them  with  the  maple-leaves  she  had 
already  gathered.  She  made  a  most  picturesque  picture 
as  she  sat  there,  in  her  severe  black  gown  and  quaint 
little  black  bonnet,  on  the  stone  wall,  surrounded  by  the 
bright  vines  and  leaves ;  her  lap  full  of  them,  the 
ground  at  her  feet  strewed  with  them,  her  little  black- 
gloved  hands  deftly  arranging  and  rearranging  them. 
She  looked  as  if  she  might  be  a  nun,  who  had  run  away 
from  her  cloister,  and  coming  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  upon  gay  gauds  of  color,  in  strange  fabrics,  had 
sat  herself  down  instantly  to  weave  and  work  with  them, 
unaware  that  she  was  on  a  highway. 

This  was  the  picture  that  Stephen  White  saw,  as  he 
came  slowly  up  the  road  on  his  way  home  after  an  un 
usually  wearying  day.  He  slackened  his  pace,  and,  per 
ceiving  how  entirely  unconscious  Mercy  was  of  his 
approach,  deliberately  studied  her,  feature,  dress,  atti 
tude,  —  all,  as  scrutinizingly  as  if  she  had  been  painted 
on  canvas  and  hanging  on  a  wall. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  she  isn't  bad- 
looking,  after  all.  I  'm  not  sure  that  she  isn't  pretty.  If 
she  hadn't  that  inconceivable  bonnet  on  her  head,  —  yes, 
she  is  very  pretty.  Her  mouth  is  bewitching.  I  declare, 
I  believe  she  is  beautiful,"  were  Stephen's  successive 
verdicts,  as  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  Mercy.  Mercy 
was  thinking  of  him  at  that  very  moment,  —  was  thinking 
of  him  with  a  return  of  the  annoyance  and  mortification 
which  had  stung  her  at  intervals  all  day,  whenever  sha 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  6 1 

recalled  their  interview  of  the  previous  evening.  Mercy 
combined,  in  a  very  singular  manner,  some  of  the  traits  of 
an  impulsive  nature  with  those  of  an  unimpulsive  one. 
She  did  things,  said  things,  and  felt  things  with  the 
instantaneous  intensity  of  the  poetic  temperament ;  but 
she  was  quite  capable  of  looking  at  them  afterward, 
and  weighing  them  with  the  cool  and  unbiassed  judg 
ment  of  the  most  phlegmatic  realist.  Hence  she  often 
had  most  uncomfortable  seasons,  in  which  one  side  of 
her  nature  took  the  other  side  to  task,  scorned  it  and 
berated  it  severely ;  holding  up  its  actions  to  its  re 
morseful  view,  as  an  elder  sister  might  chide  a  younger 
one,  who  was  incorrigibly  perverse  and  wayward. 

"  It  was  about  as  silly  a  thing  as  you  ever  did  in  your 
life.  He  must  have  thought  you  a  perfect  fool  to  have 
supposed  he  had  come  down  to  meet  you,"  she  was  say 
ing  to  herself  at  the  very  moment  when  the  sound  of 
Stephen's  footsteps  first  reached  her  ear,  and  caused 
her  to  look  up.  The  sight  of  his  face  at  that  particular 
moment  was  so  startling  and  so  unpleasant  to  her  that 
it  deprived  her  of  all  self-possession.  She  gave  a  low 
cry,  her  face  was  flooded  with  crimson,  and  she  sprang 
from  the  wall  so  hastily  that  her  leaves  and  vines  flew 
in  every  direction. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  I  frightened  you  so,  Mrs.  Philbiick,'' 
said  Stephen,  quite  unconscious  of  the  true  source  of 
her  confusion.  "  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  speaking, 
when  you  heard  me.  I  ought  to  have  spoken  before, 
but  you  made  so  charming  a  picture  sitting  there  among 
the  leaves  and  vines  that  I  could  not  resist  looking  at 
you  a  little  longer." 


62  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

Mercy  Philbrick  hated  a  compliment.  This  was 
partly  the  result  of  the  secluded  life  she  had  led  ;  partly 
an  instinctive  antagonism  in  her  straightforward  nature 
to  any  thing  which  could  be  even  suspected  of  not  being 
true.  The  few  direct  compliments  she  had  received  had 
been  from  men  whom  she  neither  respected  nor 'trusted. 
These  words,  coming  from  Stephen  White,  just  at  this 
moment,  were  most  offensive  to  her. 

Her  face  flushed  still  deeper  red,  and  saying  curtly,— 

"  You  frightened  me  very  much,  Mr.  White  ;  but  it  is 
not  of  the  least  consequence,"  she  turned  to  walk 
back  to  the  village.  Stephen  unconsciously  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  detain  her. 

"  But,  Mrs.  Philbrick,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  pray  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  the  house.  Do  you  think  you  can  be 
contented  in  it  ? " 

"  I  have  not  seen  it,"  replied  Mercy,  in  the  same  curt 
tone,  still  moving  on. 

"  Not  seen  it ! "  exclaimed  Stephen,  in  a  tone  which 
was  of  such  intense  astonishment  that  it  effectually 
roused  Mercy's  attention.  "  Not  seen  it !  Why,  did 
you  not  know  you  were  on  your  own  stone  wall  ?  There 
is  the  house ;  "  and  Mercy,  following  the  gesture  of  his 
hand,  saw,  not  more  than  twenty  rods  beyond  the  spot 
where  she  had  been  sitting,  a  shabby,  faded,  yellow 
wooden  house,  standing  in  a  yard  which  looked  almost 
as  neglected  as  the  orchard,  from  which  it  was  only  in 
part  separated  by  a  tumbling  stone  wall. 

Mercy  did  not  speak.     Stephen  watched  her  face  in 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  ^3 

silence  for  a  moment;   then  he  laughed  constrainedly, 
and  said, — 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Philbrick,  to  say  outright  that 
it  is  the  dismallest  old  barn  you  ever  saw.  That 's  just 
what  I  had  said  about  it  hundreds  of  times,  and  won 
dered  how  anybody  could  possibly  live  in  it.  But  neces 
sity  drove  us  into  it,  and  I  suppose  necessity  has  brought 
you  to  it,  too,"  added  Stephen,  sadly. 

Mercy  did  not  speak.  Very  deliberately  her  eyes 
scanned  the  building.  An  expression  of  scorn  slowly 
gathered  on  her  face. 

"  It  is  not  so  forlorn  inside  as  it  is  out,"  said  Stephen 
"  Some  of  the  rooms  are  quite  pleasant.  The  south 
rooms  in  your  part  of  the  house  are  very  cheerful." 

Mercy  did  not  speak.  Stephen  went  on,  beginning 
to  be  half-angry  with  this  little,  unknown  woman  from 
Cape  Cod,  who  looked  with  the  contemptuous  glance  of 
a  princess  upon  the  house  in  which  he  and  his  mother 
dwelt,  — 

"  You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  throw  up  your  lease,  Mrs. 
Philbrick,  if  you  choose.  It  was,  perhaps,  hardly  fair  to 
have  let  you  hire  the  house  without  seeing  it." 

Mercy  started.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  White.  1 
should  not  think  of  such  a  thing  as  giving  up  the  lease, 
I  am  very  sorry  you  saw  how  ugly  I  think  the  house. 
I  do  think  it  is  the  very  ugliest  house  I  ever  saw," 
she  continued,  speaking  with  emphatic  deliberation ; 
"  but,  then,  I  have  not  seen  many  houses.  In  our  village 
at  home,  all  the  houses  are  low  and  broad  and  comfort 
able-looking.  They  look  as  if  they  had  sat  down  and 


64  MERCY  PHILBRIC1CS  CHOICE. 

leaned  back  to  take  their  ease ;  and  they  are  all  neat 
and  clean-looking,  and  have  rows  of  flower-beds  from 
the  gate  to  the  front  door.  I  never  saw  a  house  built 
with  such  a  steep  angle  to  its  roof  as  this  has,"  said 
Mercy,  looking  up  with  the  instinctive  dislike  of  a  natu 
ral  artist's  eye  at  the  ridgepole  of  the  old  house. 

"  We  have  to  have  our  roofs  at  a  sharp  pitch,  to  let 
the  snow  slide  off  in  winter,"  said  Stephen,  apologeti 
cally,  "  we  have  such  heavy  snows  here ;  but  that 
doesn't  make  the  angle  any  less  ugly  to  look  at." 

"  No,"  said  Mercy ;  and  her  eyes  still  roved  up  and 
down  and  over  the  house,  with  not  a  shadow  of  relent 
ing  in  their  expression.  It  was  Stephen's  turn  to  be 
silent  now.  He  watched  her,  but  did  not  speak. 

Mercy's  face  was  not  merely  a  record  of  her  thoughts : 
it  was  a  photograph  of  them.  As  plainly  as  on  a  written 
page  held  in  his  hand,  Stephen  White  read  the  succes 
sive  phases  of  thought  and  struggle  which  passed 
through  Mercy's  mind  for  the  next  five  minutes ;  and 
he  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  when,  turning  suddenly 
towards  him  with  a  very  sweet  smile,  she  said  in  a  reso 
lute  tone,  — 

"  There  !  that 's  done  with.  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
my  rudeness,  Mr.  White ;  but  the  truth  is  I  was  awfully 
shocked  at  the  first  sight  of  the  house.  It  isn't  your 
house,  you  know,  so  it  isn't  quite  so  bad  for  me  to  say 
so ;  and  I  'm  so  glad  you  hate  it  as  much  as  I  do.  Now 
I  am  never  going  to  think  about  it  again,  —  never." 

"  Why,  can  you  help  it,  Mrs.  Philbrick  ? "  asked 
Stephen,  in  a  wondering  tone.  "  I  can't  I  hate  it 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  65 

more  and  more,  I  verily  believe,  each  time  I  come 
home  ;  and  I  think  that,  if  my  mother  weren't  in  it,  I 
should  burn  it  down  some  night." 

Mercy  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  shade  of  the  same 
contempt  with  which  she  had  looked  at  the  house ;  and 
Stephen  winced,  as  she  said  coolly,  — 

"Why,  of  course  I  can  help  it.  I  should  be  very 
much  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  couldn't.  I  never  allow 
myself  to  be  distressed  by  things  which  I  can't  help,  — 
at  least,  that  sort  of  thing,"  added  Mercy,  her  face  cloud 
ing  with  the  sudden  recollection  of  a  grief  that  she  had 
not  been  able  to  rise  above.  "  Of  course,  I  don't  mean 
real  troubles,  like  grief  about  any  one  you  love.  One 
can't  wholly  conquer  such  troubles  as  that ;  but  one  can 
do  a  great  deal  more  even  with  these  than  people  usu 
ally  suppose.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  right  to  let  our 
selves  be  unhappy  about  any  thing,  even  the  worst  of 
troubles.  But  I  must  hurry  home  now.  It  is  growing 
late." 

"  Mrs.  Philbrick,"  exclaimed  Stephen,  earnestly : 
"  please  come  into  the  house,  and  speak  to  my  mother 
a  moment.  You  don't  know  how  she  has  been  looking 
forward  to  your  coming." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  cannot  possibly  do  that,"  replied  Mercy. 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  call  on  your  mother, 
merely  because  we  are  going  to  live  in  the  same  house." 

"  But  I  assure  you,"  persisted  Stephen,  "  that  it  will 
give  her  the  greatest  pleasure.  She  is  a  helpless  cripple, 
and  never  leaves  her  bed.  She  has  probably  been 
watching  us  from  the  window.  She  always  watches  foi 


66  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

me.  She  will  wonder  if  I  do  not  bring  you  in  to  see  her. 
Please  come,"  he  said  with  a  tone  which  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  resist  ;  and  Mercy  went. 

Mrs.  White  had  indeed  been  watching  them  from  the 
window ;  but  Stephen  had  reckoned  without  his  host,  or 
rather  without  his  hostess,  when  he  assured  Mercy  that 
his  mother  would  be  so  glad  to  see  her.  The  wisest 
and  the  tenderest  of  men  are  continually  making  blun 
ders  in  their  relations  with  women  ;  especially  if  they 
are  so  unfortunate  as  to  occupy  in  any  sense  a  position 
involving  a  relation  to  two  women  at  once.  The  rela 
tion  may  be  ever  so  rightful  and  honest  to  each  woman  ; 
the  women  may  be  good  women,  and  in  their  right 
places ;  but  the  man  will  find  himself  perpetually  get 
ting  into  most  unexpected  hot  water,  as  many  a  man 
could  testify  pathetically,  if  he  were  called  upon. 

Mrs.  White  had  been  watching  her  son  through 
the  whole  of  his  conversation  with  Mercy.  She  could 
see  only  dimly  at  such  a  distance  ;  but  she  had  dis 
cerned  that  it  was  a  woman  with  whom  he  stood  talking 
so  long.  It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  past  supper- 
time,  and  supper  was  Mrs.  White's  one  festivity  in  the 
course  of  the  day.  Their  breakfast  and  their  mid-day 
dinner  were  too  hurried  meals  for  enjoyment,  because 
Stephen  was  obliged  to  make  haste  to  the  office ;  but 
with  supper  there  was  nothing  to  interfere.  Stephen's 
work  for  the  day  was  done :  he  took  great  pains  to  tell 
her  at  this  time  every  thing  which  he  had  seen  or  heard 
which  could  give  her  the  least  amusement.  She  looked 
forward  all  through  her  long  lonely  days  to  the  evenings, 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  67 

as  a  child  looks  forward  to  Saturday  afternoons.  Like 
all  invalids  whose  life  has  been  forced  into  grooves,  she 
was  impatient  and  unreasonable  when  anybody  or  any 
thing  interfered  with  her  routine.  A  five  minutes'  delay 
was  to  her  a  serious  annoyance,  and  demanded  an  accu 
rate  explanation.  Stephen  so  thoroughly  understood 
this  exactingness  on  her  part  that  he  adjusted  his  life  to 
it,  as  a  conscientious  school-boy  adjusts  his  to  bells  and 
signals,  and  never  trespassed  knowingly.  If  he  had 
dreamed  that  it  was  past  tea-time,  on  this  unlucky  night, 
he  would  never  have  thought  of  asking  Mercy  to  go  in 
and  see  his  mother.  But  he  did  not ;  and  it  was  with  a 
bright  and  eager  face  that  he  threw  open  the  door,  and 
said  in  the  most  cordial  tone,  — 

"Mother,  I  have  brought  Mrs.  Philbrick  to  see 
you." 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Philbrick  ? "  was  the  rejoinder, 
in  a  tone  and  with  a  look  so  chilling  that  poor  Mercy's 
heart  sank  within  her.  She  had  all  along  had  an  ideal 
in  her  own  mind  of  the  invalid  old  lady,  Mr.  White's 
mother,  to  whom  she  was  to  be  very  good,  and  who  was 
to  be  her  mother's  companion.  She  pictured  her  as  her 
own  mother  would  be,  a  good  deal  older  and  feebler,  in 
a  gentle,  receptive,  patient  old  age.  Of  so  repellent, 
aggressive,  unlovely  an  old  woman  as  this  she  had  had 
no  conception.  It  would  be  hard  to  do  justice  in  words 
to  Mrs.  White's  capacity  to  be  disagreeable  when 
she  chose.  She  had  gray  eyes,  which,  though  they  had 
a  very  deceptive  trick  of  suffusing  with  tears  as  of  great 
sensibility  on  occasion,  were  capable  of  resting  upon  a 


68  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

person  with  a  positively  unhuman  coldness ;  her  voice 
also  had  at  these  times  a  distinctly  unhuman  quality 
in  its  tones.  She  had  apparently  no  conception  of  any 
necessity  of  controlling  her  feelings,  or  the  expression 
of  them.  If  she  were  pleased,  if  all  things  went  pre 
cisely  as  she  liked,  if  all  persons  ministered  to  hei 
pleasure,  well  and  good,  —  she  would  be  graciously 
pleased  to  smile,  and  be  good-humored.  If  she  were 
displeased,  if  her  preferences  were  not  consulted,  if  her 
plans  were  interfered  with,  woe  betide  the  first  person 
who  entered  her  presence ;  and  still  more  woe  betide 
the  person  who  was  responsible  for  her  annoyance. 

As  soon  as  Stephen's  eyes  fell  on  her  face,  on  this 
occasion,  he  felt  with  a  sense  of  almost  terror  that  he 
had  made  a  fatal  mistake,  and  he  knew  instantly  that 
it  must  be  much  later  than  he  had  supposed ;  but  he 
plunged  bravely  in,  like  a  man  taking  a  header  into  a 
pool  he  fears  he  may  drown  in,  and  began  to  give  a  vol 
uble  account  of  how  he  had  found  Mrs.  Philbrick  sitting 
on  their  stone  wall,  so  absorbed  in  looking  at  the  bright 
leaves  that  she  had  not  even  seen  the  house.  He  ran 
on  in  this  strain  for  some  minutes,  hoping  that  his 
mother's  mood  might  soften,  but  in  vain.  She  listened 
with  the  same  stony,  unresponsive  look  on  her  face, 
never  taking  the  stony,  unresponsive  eyes  from  his  face  ; 
and,  as  soon  as  he  stopped  speaking,  she  said  in  an 
equally  stony  voice,  — 

"  Mrs.  Philbrick,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  take  off 
your  bonnet  and  take  tea  with  us?  It  is  already  long 
past  our  tea-hour ! " 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  69 

Mercy  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  said  impulsively.  "  Oh, 
no,  I  thank  you.  I  did  not  dream  that  it  was  so  late. 
My  mother  will  be  anxious  about  me.  I  must  go.  I 
am  veiy  sorry  I  came  in.  Good-evening." 

"Good-evening,  Mrs.  Philbrick,"  in  the  same  slow 
and  stony  syllables,  came  from  Mrs.  White's  lips,  and 
she  turned  her  head  away  immediately. 

Stephen,  with  his  face  crimson  with  mortification,  fol 
lowed  Mercy  to  the  door.  In  a  low  voice,  he  said,  "  I 
hope  you  will  be  able  to  make  allowances  for  my 
mother's  manner.  It  is  all  my  fault.  I  know  that  she 
can  never  bear  to  have  me  late  at  meals,  and  I  ought 
never  to  allow  myself  to  forget  the  hour.  It  is  all  my 
fault." 

Mercy's  indignation  at  her  reception  was  too  great  for 
her  sense  of  courtesy. 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  your  fault  at  all,  Mr.  White," 
she  exclaimed.  "  Good-night,"  and  she  was  out  of 
sight  before  Stephen  could  think  of  a  word  to  say. 

Very  slowly  he  walked  back  into  the  sitting-room. 
He  had  seldom  been  so  angry  with  his  mother ;  but  his 
countenance  betrayed  no  sign  of  it,  and  he  took  his  seat 
opposite  her  in  silence.  Silence,  absolute,  unconquer 
able  silence,  was  the  armor  which  Stephen  White  wore. 
It  was  like  those  invisible  networks  of  fine  chains  worn 
next  the  skin,  in  which  many  men  in  the  olden  time 
passed  unscathed  through  years  of  battles,  and  won  the 
reputation  of  having  charmed  lives.  No  one  suspected 
the  secret.  To  the  ordinary  beholder,  the  man  seemed 
accoutred  in  the  ordinary  fashion  of  soldiers ;  but, 


7O  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

whenever  a  bullet  struck  him,  it  glanced  off  harmlessly 
as  if  turned  back  by  a  spell.  It  was  so  with  Stephen 
White's  silence :  in  ordinary  intercourse,  he  was  social, 
genial ;  he  talked  more  than  average  men  talk  ;  he  took, 
or  seemed  to  take,  more  interest  than  men  usually  take 
in  the  common  small  talk  of  average  people ;  but  the 
instant  there  was  a  manifestation  of  anger,  of  discord, 
of  any  thing  unpleasant,  he  entrenched  himself  in 
silence.  This  was  especially  the  case  when  he  was  re 
proached  or  aroused  by  his  mother.  It  was  often  more 
provoking  to  her  than  any  amount  of  retort  or  recrimi 
nation  could  have  been.  She  had  in  her  nature  a  cer 
tain  sort  of  slow  ugliness  which  delighted  in  dwelling 
upon  a  small  offence,  in  asking  irritating  questions 
about  it,  in  reiterating  its  details ;  all  the  while  making 
it  out  a  matter  of  personal  unkindness  or  indifference 
to  her  that  it  should  have  happened.  When  she  was  in 
*hese  moods,  Stephen's  silence  sometimes  provoked  her 
past  endurance. 

"  Can't  you  speak,  Stephen  ? "  she  would  exclaim. 

"What  would  be  the  use,  mother?"  he  would  say, 
sadly.  "  If  you  do  not  know  that  the  great  aim  of  my 
life  is  to  make  you  happy,  it  is  of  no  use  for  me  to 
keep  on  saying  it.  If  it  would  make  you  any  happier 
to  keep  on  discussing  and  discussing  this  question 
indefinitely,  I  would  endure  even  thatj  but  it  would 
not." 

To  do  Mrs.  White  justice,  she  was  generally  ashamed 
of  these  ebullitions  of  unreasonable  ill-temper,  and  en 
deavored  to  atone  for  them  afterward  by  being  more 


MKllCY  PUILBRICK'S   CHOICE  Jl 

than  ordinarily  affectionate  and  loving  in  her  manner 
towards  Stephen.  But  her  shame  was  short-lived,  and 
never  made  her  any  the  less  unreasonable  or  exacting 
when  the  next  occasion  occurred ;  so  that,  although 
Stephen  received  her  affectionate  epithets  and  caresses 
with  filial  responsiveness,  he  was  never  in  the  slightest 
degree  deluded  by  them.  He  took  them  for  what  they 
were  worth,  and  held  himself  no  whit  freer  from  con 
straint,  no  whit  less  ready  for  the  next  storm.  By  the 
very  fact  of  the  greater  fineness  of  his  organization,  this 
tyrannical  woman  held  him  chained.  His  submission 
to  her  would  have  seemed  abject,  if  it  had  not  been 
based  on  a  sentiment  and  grounded  in  a  loyalty  which 
compelled  respect.  He  had  accepted  this  burden  as 
the  one  great  duty  of  his  life  ;  and,  whatever  became  of 
him,  whatever  became  of  his  life,  the  burden  should  be 
carried.  This  helpless  woman,  who  stood  to  him  in 
the  relation  of  mother,  should  be  made  happy.  From 
the  moment  of  his  father's  death,  he  had  assumed  this 
obligation  as  a  sacrament ;  and,  if  it  lasted  his  life  out, 
he  would  never  dream  of  evading  or  lessening  it.  In 
this  fine  fibre  of  loyalty,  Stephen  White  and  Mercy 
Philbrick  were  alike :  though  it  was  in  him  more  an 
exalted  sentiment ;  in  her,  simply  an  organic  neces 
sity.  In  him,  it  would  always  have  been  in  danger  of 
taking  morbid  shapes  and  phases  ;  of  being  over-ridden 
and  distorted  at  any  time  by  selfishness  or  wickedness 
in  its  object,  as  it  had  been  by  his  selfish  mother.  In 
Mercy,  it  was  on  a  higher  and  healthier  plane.  With 
out  being  a  shade  less  loyal,  she  would  be  far  clearer- 


72  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

sighted ;  would  render,  but  not  surrender  ;  would  give 
a  lifetime  of  service,  but  not  a  moment  of  subjection. 
There  was  a  shade  of  something  feminine  in  Stephen's 
loyalty,  of  something  perhaps  masculine  in  Mercy's ; 
but  Mercy's  was  the  best,  the  truest. 

"  I  wouldn't  allow  my  mother  to  treat  a  stranger  like 
that,''  she  thought  indignantly,  as  she  walked  away 
after  Mrs.  White's  inhospitable  invitation  to  tea.  "I 
wouldn't  allow  her.  I  would  make  her  see  the  shame- 
fulness  of  it.  What  a  weak  man  Mr.  White  must 
be!" 

Yet  if  Mercy  could  have  looked  into  the  room  she  had 
just  left,  and  have  seen  Stephen  listening  with  a  face 
unmoved,  save  for  a  certain  compression  of  the  mouth, 
and  a  look  of  patient  endurance  in  the  eyes,  to  a  tor 
rent  of  ill-nature  from  his  mother,  she  would  have  recog 
nized  that  he  had  strength,  however  much  she  might 
have  undervalued  its  type. 

"  I  should  really  think  that  you  might  have  more  con 
sideration,  Stephen,  than  to  be  so  late  to  tea,  when  you 
know  it  is  all  I  have  to  look  forward  to,  all  day  long. 
You  stood  a  good  half  hour  talking  with  that  woman. 
Did  you  not  know  how  late  it  was  ? " 

"No,  mother.     If  I  had,  I  should  have  come  in." 

"  I  suppose  you  had  your  watch  on,  hadn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Well,  I  'd  like  to  know  what  excuse  there  is  for  a 
man's  not  knowing  what  time  it  is,  when  he  has  a  watch 
in  his  pocket  ?  And  then  you  must  needs  bring  her  in 
here,  of  all  things,  —  when  you  know  I  hate  to  see  people 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  73 

near  my  meal-times,  and  you  must  have  known  it  was 
near  supper-time.  At  any  rate,  watch  or  no  watch,  I 
suppose  you  didn't  think  you  'd  started  to  come  home  in 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  did  you?  And  what  did 
you  want  her  to  come  in  for,  anyhow  ?  I  'd  like  to  know 
that.  Answer  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Simply  because  I  thought  that  it  would  give  you 
pleasure  to  see  some  one,  mother.  You  often  complain 
of  being  so  lonely,  of  no  one's  coming  in,"  replied  Ste 
phen,  in  a  tone  which  was  pathetic,  almost  shrill,  from 
its  effort  to  be  patient  and  calm. 

"  I  wish,  if  you  can't  speak  in  your  own  voice,  you 
wouldn't  speak  at  all,"  said  the  angry  woman.  "  What 
makes  you  change  your  voice  so  ? " 

Stephen  made  no  reply.  He  knew  very  well  this 
strange  tone  which  sometimes  came  into  his  voice,  when 
his  patience  was  tried  almost  beyond  endurance.  He 
would  have  liked  to  avoid  it ;  he  was  instinctively  con 
scious  that  it  often  betrayed  to  other  people  what  he 
suffered.  But  it  was  beyond  his  control :  it  seemed  as 
if  all  the  organs  of  speech  involuntarily  clenched  them 
selves,  as  the  hand  unconsciously  clenches  itself  when  a 
man  is  enraged. 

Mrs.  White  persisted.  "  Your  voice,  when  you  're 
angry,  's  enough  to  drive  anybody  wild.  I  never  heard 
any  thing  like  it.  And  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  what  you 
have  to  be  angry  at  now.  I  should  think  I  was  the  one 
to  be  angry.  You  're  all  I  've  got  in  the  world,  Stephen ; 
and  you  know  what  a  life  I  lead.  It  isn't  as  if  I  could 
go  about,  like  other  women  ;  then  I  shouldn't  care  where 
4 


74  MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

you  spent  your  time,  if  you  didn't  want  to  spend  it  with 
me."  And  tears,  partly  of  ill-temper,  partly  of  real  grief, 
rolled  down  the  hard,  unlovely,  old  face. 

This  was  only  one  evening.  There  are  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  in  a  year.  Was  not  the  burden  too  heavy 
for  mortal  man  to  carry  ? 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  /$ 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"\  /TERCY  said  nothing  to  her  mother  of  Mrs.  White's 
•*•*•*!  rudeness.  She  merely  mentioned  the  fact  of  her 
having  met  Mr.  White  near  the  house,  and  having  gone 
with  him,  at  his  request,  to  speak  to  his  mother. 

"  What 's  she  like,  Mercy  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Carr,  eagerly. 
"  Is  she  goin'  to  be  company  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  tell,  mother,"  replied  Mercy,  indiffer 
ently  ;  "for  it  was  just  their  tea-hour,  and  I  did  not  stay 
a  minute,  —  only  just  to  say,  How  d'  ye  do,  and  Good- 
evening.  But  Mr.  White  says  she  is  very  lonely ;  peo 
ple  don't  go  to  see  her  much :  so  I  should  think  she 
would  be  very  glad  of  somebody  her  own  age  in  the 
house,  to  come  and  sit  with  her.  She  looks  very  ill, 
poor  soul.  She  hasn't  been  out  of  her  bed,  except  when 
she  was  lifted,  for  eight  years." 

"  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Carr.  "  Oh, 
I  hope  I  '11  never  be  that  way.  What  'u'd  you  ever  do 
child,  if  I  'd  get  to  be  like  that  ?  " 

"  No  danger,  mother  dear,  of  your  ever  being  like 
Mrs.  White,"  said  Mercy,  with  an  incautious  emphasis, 
which,  however,  escaped  Mrs.  Carr's  recognition. 

"  Why,  how  can  you  be  so  sure  I  mightn't  ever  get 
into  jest  so  bad  a  way,  child ?  There  's  none  of  us  can 


?6  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S    CHOICE. 

say  what  diseases  we  're  likely  to  hev  or  not  to  hev. 
Now  there  's  never  been  a  case  o'  lung  trouble  in  cm 
family  afore  mine,  not 's  fur  back  's  anybody  kin  trace  it 
out ;  'n'  there  's  been  two  cancers  to  my  own  knowledge ; 
'n'  I  allus  hed  a  most  awful  dread  o'  gettin'  a  cancer. 
There  ain't  no  death  like  thet.  There  wuz  my  mother's 
half-sister,  Keziah,  —  she  that  married  Elder  Swift  for 
her  second  husband.  She  died  o'  cancer  ;  an'  her  old 
est  boy  by  her  first  husband  he  hed  it  in  his  face  awful. 
But  he  held  on  ter  life  's  ef  he  couldn't  say  die,  nohow ; 
and  I  tell  yer,  Mercy,  it  wuz  a  sight  nobody  'd  ever 
forget,  to  see  him  goin'  round  the  street  with  one  side 
o'  his  face  all  bound  up,  and  his  well  eye  a  rolling 
round,  a-doin'  the  work  o'  two.  He  got  so  he  couldn't 
see  at  all  out  o'  either  eye  afore  he  died,  'n'  you  could 
hear  his  screeches  way  to  our  house.  There  wouldn't  no 
laudalum  stop  the  pain  a  mite." 

"  Oh,  mother !  don't !  don't ! "  exclaimed  Mercy.  "  It 
is  too  dreadful  to  talk  about.  I  can't  bear  to  think  that 
any  human  being  has  ever  suffered  so.  Please  don't 
ever  speak  of  cancers  again." 

Mrs.  Carr  looked  puzzled  and  a  little  vexed,  as  she 
answered,  "  Well,  I  reckon  they  Ve  got  to  be  talked 
about  a  good  deal,  fust  and  last,  's  long 's  there  's  so  many 
dies  on  'em.  But  I  don't  know  's  you  'n'  I  Ve  got  any  call 
to  dwell  on  'em  much.  You  Ve  got  dreadful  quick  feel- 
in's,  Mercy,  ain't  you  ?  You  allus  was  orful  feelin'  for 
everybody  when  you  wuz  little,  'n'  I  don't  see  's  you  Ve 
outgrowed  it  a  bit.  But  I  expect  it 's  thet  makes  you 
sech  friends  with  folks,  an'  makes  you  such  a  good  gal 


MERCY  PHILDRICK'S  CHOICE.  77 

to  your  poor  old  mother.  Kiss  me,  child,"  and  Mrs. 
Carr  lifted  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  as  a  child  lifts  up 
its  face  to  its  mother.  She  did  this  many  times  a  day  ; 
and,  whenever  Mercy  bent  down  to  kiss  her,  she  put  hei 
hands  on  the  old  woman's  shoulders,  and  said,  "  Deal 
little  mother  !  "  in  a  tone  which  made  her  mother's  heart 
warm  with  happiness. 

It  is  a  very  beautiful  thing  to  see  just  this  sort  ot 
relation  between  an  aged  parent  and  a  child,  the 
exact  reversal  of  the  bond,  and  the  bond  so  absolutely 
fulfilled.  It  seems  to  give  a  new  and  deeper  sense  to  the 
word  "  filial,"  and  a  new  and  deeper  significance  to  the 
joy  of  motherhood  or  fatherhood.  Alas,  that  so  few 
sons  and  daughters  are  capable  of  it !  so  few  helpless 
old  people  know  the  blessedness  of  it !  No  little  child 
six  years  old  ever  rested  more  entirely  and  confidingly 
in  the  love  and  kindness  and  shelter  and  direction  of 
its  mother  than  did  Mrs.  Carr  in  the  love  and  kindness 
and  shelter  and  direction  of  her  daughter  Mercy.  It 
had  begun  to  be  so,  while  Mercy  was  yet  a  little  girl. 
Before  she  was  fifteen  years  old,  she  felt  a  responsibility 
for  her  mother's  happiness,  a  watchfulness  over  he: 
mother's  health,  and  even  a  care  of  her  mother's  clothes. 
With  each  year,  the  sense  of  these  responsibilities  grew 
deeper ;  and  after  her  marriage,  as  she  was  denied  the 
blessing  of  children,  all  the  deep  maternal  instincts  of 
her  strong  nature  flowed  back  and  centred  anew  around 
this  comparatively  helpless,  aged  child  whom  she  called 
mother,  and  treated  with  never-failing  respect. 


?  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

When  Mrs.  Carr  first  saw  the  house  they  were  to  live 
in,  she  exclaimed, — 

"  O  Lor',  Mercy  !  Is  thet  the  house  ?  "  Then,  step 
ping  back  a  few  steps,  shoving  her  spectacles  high  on 
her  nose,  and  with  her  head  well  thrown  back,  she  took 
.1  survey  of  the  building  in  silence.  Then  she  tunied 
slowly  around,  and,  facing  Mercy,  said  in  a  droll,  dry 
way,  not  uncommon  with  her,  — 

"  'Bijah  Jenkins's  barn  !  " 

Mercy  laughed  outright. 

"  So  it  is,  mother.  I  hadn't  thought  of  it.  It  looks 
just  like  that  old  barn  of  Deacon  Jenkins's." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Carr.  "  That 's  it,  exzackly.  Well,  I 
never  thought  o'  offerin'  to  hire  a  barn  to  live  in  afore, 
but  I  s'pose  't  '11  do  till  we  can  look  about.  Mebbe  we 
can  do  better." 

"  But  we  've  taken  it  for  a  year,  mother,"  said  Mercy, 
a  little  dismayed. 

"Oh,  hev  we?  Well,  well,  I  daresay  it's  comfortable 
enough  ;  so  the  sun  shines  in  mornin's,  thet 's  the  most 
I  care  for.  You  '11  make  any  kind  o'  house  pooty  to 
look  at  inside,  an'  I  reckon  we  needn't  roost  on  the  fences 
outside,  a-lookin'  at  it,  any  more  'n  we  choose  to.  It 
does  look,  for  all  the  world  though,  like 'Bijah  Jenkins's 
old  yaller  barn  ;  'n'  thet  there  jog  's  jest  the  way  he 
jined  on  his  cow-shed.  I  declare  it 's  too  redicklus." 
And  the  old  lady  laughed  till  she  had  to  wipe  her 
spectacles. 

"  It  could  be  made  very  pretty,  I  think,"  said  Mercy, 
"  for  all  it  is  sc  hideous  now.  I  know  just  what  I  'd  do 


MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  79 

to  it,  if  it  were  mine.  I  'd  throw  out  a  big  bay  window 
in  that  corner  where  the  jog  is,  and  another  on  the  middle 
of  the  north  side,  and  then  run  a  piazza  across  the  west 
side,  and  carry  the  platform  round  both  the  bay  win 
dows.  I  saw  a  picture  of  a  house  in  a  book  Mr.  Allen 
had,  which  looked  very  much  as  this  would  look  then 
Oh,  but  1  'd  like  to  do  it !  "  Mercy's  imagination  was 
so  fired  with  the  picture  she  had  made  to  herself  of  the 
house  thus  altered  and  improved,  that  she  could  not 
easily  relinquish  it. 

"  But,  Mercy,  you  don't  know  the  lay  o'  the  rooms, 
child.  You  don'  'no'  where  that  ere  jog  comes.  Your  bay 
window  mightn't  come  so's  't  would  be  of  any  use.  Yer 
wouldn't  build  one  jest  to  look  at,  would  you  ?  "  said 
her  mother. 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  I  wouldn't,  if  I  had  plenty  of  money," 
replied  Mercy,  laughing.  "  But  I  have  no  idea  of  building 
bay  windows  on  other  people's  houses.  I  was  only  amus 
ing  myself  by  planning  it.  I  'd  rather  have  that  house, 
old  and  horrid  as  it  is,  than  any  house  in  the  town.  I 
like  the  situation  so  much,  and  the  woods  are  so  beautiful. 
Perhaps  I  '11  earn  a  lot  of  money  some  day,  and  buy  the 
place,  and  make  it  just  as  we  like  it." 

"  You  earn  money,  child  !  "  said  Mrs.  Carr,  in  a  tone 
of  unqualified  wonder.  "  How  could  you  earn  money,  I  'd 
like  to  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  make  bonnets  or  gowns,  dear  little  mother,  or 
teach  school,"  said  Mercy,  coloring.  "  Mr.  Allen  said  I 
was  quite  well  enough  fitted  to  teach  our  school  at  home, 
if  I  liked." 


80  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

"  But,  Mercy,  child,  you  'd  never  go  to  do  any  such 
thing's  thet,  would  yer  now?"  said  her  mother,  pite- 
ously.  "  Don't  ye  hev  all  ye  want,  Mercy  ?  Ain't  there 
money  enough  for  our  clothes  ?  I  'm  sure  I  don't  need 
much ;  an'  I  could  do  with  a  good  deal  less,  if  theie  was 
any  thing  you  wanted,  dear.  Your  father  he  'd  never 
rest  in  his  grave,  ef  he  thought  his  little  Mercy  was  a 
havin'  to  arn  money  for  her  livin'.  You  didn't  mean  it, 
child,  did  yer  ?  Say  yer  didn't  mean  it,  Mercy,"  and 
tears  stood  in  the  poor  old  woman's  eyes. 

It  is  strange  what  a  tenacious  pride  there  was  in  the 
hearts  of  our  old  sea-faring  men  of  a  half  century  ago. 
They  had  the  same  feeling  that  kings  and  emperors 
might  have  in  regard  to  their  wives  and  daughters,  that 
it  was  a  disgrace  for  them  to  be  obliged  to  earn  money. 
It  would  be  an  interesting  thing  to  analyze  this  senti 
ment,  to  trace  it  to  its  roots  :  it  was  so  universal  among 
successful  sea-faring  men  that  it  must  have  had  its 
origin  in  some  trait  distinctively  peculiar  to  their  profes 
sion.  All  the  other  women  in  the  town  or  the  village 
might  eke  out  the  family  incomes  by  whatever  devices 
they  pleased ;  but  the  captains'  wives  were  to  be 
ladies.  They  were  to  wear  silk  gowns  brought  from 
many  a  land  ;  they  were  to  have  ornaments  of  quaint 
fashion,  picked  up  here  and  there ;  they  were  to  have 
money  enough  in  the  bank  to  live  on  in  quiet  comfort 
during  the  intervals  when  the  husbands  sailed  away  to 
make  more.  So  strong  was  this  feeling  that  it  crystal 
lized  into  a  traditionary  custom  of  life,  which  even  pov 
erty  finds  it  hard  to  overcome.  You  shall  find  to-day,  in 


MERCY  PIIILBRLCK'S   CHOICE.  8 1 

any  one  of  the  seaport  cities  or  towns  of  New  England, 
widows  and  daughters  of  sea-captains,  living,  or  rather 
seeming  to  live,  upon  the  most  beggarly  incomes,  but 
still  keeping  up  a  certain  pathetic  sham  of  appearance 
of  being  at  ease.  If  they  are  really  face  to  face  with 
probable  starvation,  they  may  go  to  some  charitable 
institution  where  fine  needlework  is  given  out,  and  earn 
a  few  dollars  in  that  way.  But  they  will  fetch  and  carry 
their  work  by  night,  and  no  neighbor  will  ever  by  any 
chance  surprise  them  with  it  in  their  hands.  Most 
beautifully  is  this  surreptitious  sewing  done  ;  there  is  no 
work  in  this  country  like  it.  The  tiny  stitches  bear  the 
very  aroma  of  sad  and  lonely  leisure  in  them  ;  a  certain 
fine  pride,  too,  as  if  the  poverty-constrained  lady  would 
in  no  wise  condescend  to  depart  from  her  own  standard 
in  the  matter  of  a  single  loop  or  stitch,  no  matter  to  what 
plebeian  uses  the  garment  might  come  after  it  should 
leave  her  hands. 

Mercy's  deep  blush  when  she  replied  to  her  mother's 
astonished  inquiry,  how  she  could  possibly  earn  any 
money,  sprung  from  her  consciousness  of  a  secret,  —  a 
secret  so  harmless  in  itself,  that  she  was  ashamed  of 
having  any  feeling  of  guilt  in  keeping  it  a  secret ;  and 
yet,  her  fine  and  fastidious  honesty  so  hated  even  the 
semblance  of  concealment,  that  the  mere  withholding  of 
a  fact,  simply  because  she  disliked  to  mention  it,  seemed 
to  her  akin  to  a  denial  of  it.  If  there  is  such  a  thing  in 
a  human  being  as  organic  honesty,  —  an  honesty  which 
makes  a  lie  not  difficult,  but  impossible,  just  as  it  is 
impossible  for  men  to  walk  on  ceilings  like  flies,  or  to 
4*  F 


82  MERCY  PHILDRICK'S   CHOICE. 

breathe  in  water  like  fishes,  —  Mercy  Philbrick  had  it 
The  least  approach  to  an  equivocation  was  abhorrent  to 
her :  not  that  she  reasoned  about  it,  and  submitting  it 
to  her  conscience  found  it  wicked,  and  therefore  hate 
ful  •  but  that  she  disliked  it  instinctively,  —  as  instinc 
tively  as  she  disliked  pain.  Her  moral  nerves  shrank 
from  it,  just  as  nerves  of  the  body  shrink  from  suffer 
ing  ;  and  she  recoiled  from  the  suggestion  of  such  a 
thing  with  the  same  involuntary  quickness  with  which 
we  put  up  the  hand  to  ward  off  a  falling  blow,  or  drop 
the  eyelid  to  protect  an  endangered  eye.  Physicians 
tell  us  that  there  are  in  men  and  women  such  enormous 
differences  in  this  matter  of  sensitiveness  to  physical 
pain  that  one  person  may  die  of  a  pain  which  would 
be  comparatively  slight  to  another  ;  and  this  is  a  fact 
which  has  to  be  taken  very  carefully  into  account,  in  all 
dealing  with  disease  in  people  of  the  greatest  capacity 
for  suffering.  May  there  not  be  equally  great  differ 
ences  in  souls,  in  the  matter  of  sensitiveness  to  moral 
hurt?  —  differences  for  which  the  soul  is  not  responsible, 
any  more  than  the  body  is  responsible  for  its  skin's  hav 
ing  been  made  thin  or  thick.  Will-power  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  determining  the  latter  conditions. 
Let  us  be  careful  how  far  we  take  it  to  task  for  failing 
to  control  the  others.  Perhaps  we  shall  learn,  in  some 
other  stage  of  existence,  that  there  is  in  this  world  a 
great  deal  of  moral  color  blindness,  congenital,  incu 
rable  ;  and  that  God  has  much  more  pity  than  we 
suppose  for  poor  things  who  have  stumbled  a  good 
many  times  while  they  were  groping  in  darkness. 


MERCY  riULBIUCK'S   CHOICE.  83 

People  who  see  clearly  themselves  are  almost  always 
intolerant  of  those  who  do  not.  We  often  see  this 
ludicrously  exemplified,  even  in  the  trivial  matter  of 
near-sightedness.  We  are  almost  always  a  little  vexed, 
when  we  point  out  a  distant  object  to  a  friend,  and  hear 
him  reply,  — 

"No,  I  do  not  see  it  at  all.     I  am  near-sighted." 
"  What !  can't  you  see  that  far  ?  "  is  the  frequent  retcrt, 
and  in  the  pity  is  a  dasli  of  impatience. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  intolerance  in  the  world,  which 
is  closely  akin  to  this  ;  and  not  a  whit  more  reasonable 
or  righteous,  though  it  makes  great  pretensions  to  being 
both.  Mercy  Philbrick  was  full  of  such  intolerance,  on 
this  one  point  of  honesty.  She  was  intolerant  not  only 
to  others,  she  was  intolerant  to  herself.  She  had  sea 
sons  of  fierce  and  hopeless  debating  with  herself,  on  the 
most  trivial  matters,  or  what  would  seem  so  to  nine  hun 
dred  and  ninety-nine  persons  out  of  a  thousand.  Dur 
ing  such  seasons  as  these,  her  treatment  of  her  friends 
and  acquaintances  had  odd  alternations  of  frank  friend 
liness  and  reticent  coolness.  A  sudden  misgiving 
whether  she  might  not  be  appearing  to  like  her  friend 
more  than  she  really  did  would  seize  her  at  most  inop 
portune  moments,  and  make  her  absent-minded  and 
irresponsive.  She  would  leave  sentences  abruptly  un 
finished,  —  invitations,  perhaps,  or  the  acceptances  of 
invitations,  the  mere  words  of  which  spring  readily  to 
one's  lips,  and  are  thoughtlessly  spoken.  But,  in 
Mercy's  times  of  conflict  with  herself,  even  these  were 
exaggerated  in  her  view  to  monstrous  deceits.  She 


84  MERCY  PHI L B RICK'S   CHOICE. 

had  again  and  again  held  long  conversations  with  Mr. 
Allen  on  this  subject,  but  he  failed  to  help  her.  He 
was  a  good  man,  of  average  conscientiousness  and 
average  perception:  he  literally  could  not  see  many  of 
the  points  which  Mercy's  keener  analysis  ferreted  out, 
and  sharpened  into  weapons  for  her  own  pain.  He 
thought  her  simply  morbid. 

"  Now,  child,"  he  would  say,  —  for,  although  he  was 
only  a  few  years  Mercy's  senior,  he  had  taught  her  like  a 
child  for  three  years,  —  "  now,  child,  leave  off  worrying 
yourself  by  these  fancies.  There  is  not  the  least  danger 
of  your  ever  being  any  thing  but  truthful.  Nature  and 
grace  are  both  too  strong  in  you.  There  is  no  lie  in 
saying  to  a  person  who  has  come  to  see  you  in  your  own 
house,  '  I  am  glad  to  see  you,'  for  you  are  glad ;  and,  if 
not,  you  can  make  yourself  glad,  when  you  think  how 
much  pleasure  you  can  give  the  person  by  talking  with 
him.  You  are  glad,  always,  to  give  pleasure  to  any  human 
being,  are  you  not  ? " 

"  Yes,"  Mercy  would  reply  unhesitatingly. 

"  Very  well.  To  the  person  who  comes  to  see  you, 
you  give  pleasure :  therefore,  you  are  glad  to  see  him." 

"  But,  Mr.  Allen,"  would  persist  poor  Mercy,  "  that  is 
not  what  the  person  thinks  I  mean.  Very  often  some 
one  comes  to  see  me,  who  bores  me  so  that  I  can  hardly 
keep  awake.  He  would  not  be  pleased  if  he  knew  that 
all  my  cordial  welcome  really  meant  was,  — '  I  'm  glad  to 
see  you,  because  I  'm  a  benevolent  person,  and  am  will 
ing  to  make  my  fellow-creatures  happy  at  any  sacrifice, 
even  at  the  frightful  one  of  entertaining  such  a  bore  as 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  85 

you  are  ! '  He  would  never  come  near  me  again,  if  he 
knew  I  thought  that;  and  yet,  if  I  do  think  so,  and 
make  him  think  I  do  not,  is  not  that  the  biggest  sort  of 
a  He  ?  Why,  Mr.  Allen,  many  a  time  when  I  have  seen 
tiresome  or  disagreeable  people  coming  to  our  house,  I 
have  run  away  and  hid  myself,  so  as  not  to  be  found ; 
not  in  the  least  because  I  could  not  bear  the  being  bored 
by  them,  but  because  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  the 
lies  I  should  speak,  or  at  least  act,  if  I  saw  them." 

"  The  interpretation  a  visitor  chooses  to  put  upon  our 
kind  cordiality  of  manner  to  him  is  his  own  affair,  not 
ours,  Mercy.  It  is  a  Christian  duty  to  be  cordial  and 
kindly  of  manner  to  every  human  being :  any  thing  less 
gives  pain,  repels  people  from  us,  and  hinders  our  being 
able  to  do  them  good.  There  is  no  more  doubt  of  this 
than  of  any  other  first  principle  of  Christian  conduct ; 
and  I  am  very  sorry  that  these  morbid  notions  have 
taken  such  hold  of  you.  If  you  yield  to  them,  you  will 
make  yourself  soon  disliked  and  feared,  and  give  a  great 
deal  of  needless  pain  to  your  neighbors." 

It  was  hard  for  Mr.  Allen  to  be  severe  with  Mercy,  for  he 
loved  her  as  if  she  were  his  younger  sister ;  but  he  honestly 
thought  her  to  be  in  great  danger  of  falling  into  a  chronic 
morbidness  on  this  subject,  and  he  believed  that  stern 
words  were  most  likely  to  convince  her  of  her  mistake.  It 
was  a  sort  of  battle,  however,  —  this  battle  which  Mercy 
was  forced  to  fight,  —  in  which  no  human  being  can  help 
another,  unless  he  has  first  been  through  the  same  battle 
himself.  All  that  Mr.  Allen  said  seemed  to  Mercy 
specious  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  trivial :  it  failed  to  in- 


86  VLttCY  PUJLtS  KICK'S   CHOICE. 

fluence  her,  simply  because  it  did  not  so  much  as  recog 
nize  the  point  where  her  difficulty  lay. 

"  If  Mr.  Allen  tries  till  he  dies,  he  will  never  convince 
me  that  it  is  not  deceiving  people  to  make  them  think 
you  're  glad  to  see  them  when  you  're  not,"  Mercy  said 
to  herself  often,  as,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  tears  in  her 
eyes,  she  walked  home  after  these  conversations.  "  He 
may  make  me  think  that  it  is  right  to  deceive  them, 
rather  than  to  make  them  unhappy.  It  almost  seems 
as  if  it  must  be ;  yet,  if  we  once  admitted  that,  where 
should  we  ever  stop  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  would  be  a 
very  dangerous  doctrine.  A  lie 's  a  lie,  let  whoever  will 
call  it  fine  names,  and  pass  it  off  as  a  Christian  duty. 
The  Bible  does  not  say,  'Thou  shalt  not  lie,  except 
when  it  is  necessary  to  lie,  to  avoid  hurting  thy  neigh 
bor's  feelings.'  It  says,  '  Thou  shalt  not  lie.'  Oh,  what 
a  horrible  word  '  lie  '  is  !  It  stings  like  a  short,  sharp 
stroke  with  a  lash."  And  Mercy  would  turn  away  from 
the  thought  with  a  shudder,  and  resolutely  force  herself 
to  think  of  something  else.  Sometimes  she  would  escape 
from  the  perplexity  for  weeks :  chance  would  so  favor 
her,  that  no  opportunity  for  what  she  felt  to  be  deceit 
would  occur;  but,  in  these  intervals  of  relief,  her  tor 
tured  conscience  seemed  only  to  renew  its  voices,  and 
spring  upon  her  all  the  more  fiercely  on  the  next  occa 
sion.  The  effect,  of  all  these  indecisive  conflicts  upon 
Mercy's  character  had  not  been  good.  They  had  left 
her  morally  bruised,  and  therefore  abnormally  sensitive 
to  the  least  touch.  She  was  in  danger  of  becoming 
either  a  fanatic  for  truth,  or  indifferent  to  it.  Paradox 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  87 

ical  as  it  may  seem,  she  was  in  almost  as  much  danger 
of  the  one  as  of  the  other.  But  always,  when  our  hurts  are 
past  healing  without  help,  the  help  comes.  It  is  proba 
ble  that  there  is  to-day  on  the  earth  a  cure,  either  in 
herb  or  stone  or  spring,  for  every  ill  which  men's  bodies 
can  know.  Ignorance  and  accident  may  hinder  us 
long  from  them,  but  sooner  or  later  the  race  shall  come 
to  possess  them  all.  So  with  souls.  There  is  the  ready 
truth,  the  living  voice,  the  warm  hand,  or  the  final  expe 
rience,  waiting  for  each  soul's  need.  We  do  not  die  till 
we  have  found  them.  There  were  yet  to  enter  into 
Mercy  Philbrick's  life  a  new  light  and  a  new  force,  by 
the  help  of  which  she  would  see  clearly  and  stand  firm. 

The  secret  which  she  had  now  for  nearly  a  year 
kept  from  her  mother  was  a  very  harmless  one.  To 
people  of  the  world,  it  would  appear  so  trivial  a 
thing,  that  the  conscience  which  could  feel  itself 
wounded  by  reticence  on  such  a  point  would  seem 
hardly  worth  a  sneer.  Mr.  Allen,  who  had  been  Mercy's 
teacher  for  three  years,  had  early  seen  in  her  a  strong 
poetic  impulse,  and  had  fostered  and  stimulated  it  by 
every  means  in  his  power.  He  believed  that  in  the 
exercise  of  this  talent  she  would  find  the  best  possible 
help  for  her  loneliness  and  comfort  for  her  sorrow.  He 
recognized  clearly  that,  to  so  exceptional  a  nature  as 
Mercy's,  a  certain  amount  of  isolation  was  inevitable, 
all  through  her  life,  however  fortunate  she  might  be 
in  entering  into  new  and  wider  relations.  The  loneli 
ness  of  intense  individuality  is  the  loneliest  loneliness 
in  the  world,  —  a  loneliness  which  crowds  only  aggravate, 


88  MERCY  PHILBPdCK'S   CHOICE. 

and  which  even  the  closest  and  happiest  companion* 
ship  can  only  in  part  cure.  The  creative  faculty  is  the 
most  inalienable  and  uncontrollable  of  individualities. 
It  is  at  once  its  own  reward  and  its  own  penalty :  until 
it  has  conquered  the  freedom  of  its  own  city,  in  which 
it  must  for  ever  dwell,  more  or  less  apart,  it  is  only 
a  prisoner  in  the  cities  of  others.  All  this  Mr.  Allen 
felt  for  Mercy,  recognized  in  Mercy.  He  felt  and 
recognized  it  by  the  instinct  of  love,  rather  than  by  any 
intellectual  perception.  Intellectually,  he  was,  in  spite 
of  his  superior  culture,  far  Mercy's  inferior.  He  had 
been  brave  enough  and  manly  enough  to  recognize  this, 
and  also  to  recognize  what  it  took  still  more  manliness 
to  recognize,  —  that  she  could  never  love  a  man  of  his 
temperament.  It  would  have  been  very  easy  for  him 
to  love  Mercy.  He  was  not  a  man  of  a  passionate 
nature ;  but  he  felt  himself  strangely  stirred  whenever 
he  looked  into  her  sensitive,  orchid  like  face.  He  felt 
in  every  fibre  of  him  that  to  have  the  whole  love  of 
such  a  woman  would  be  bewildering  joy ;  yet  never  for 
one  moment  did  he  allow  himself  to  think  of  seeking 
it.  "  I  might  make  her  think  she  loved  me,  perhaps," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  She  is  so  lonely  and  sad,  and 
has  seen  so  few  men ;  but  it  would  be  base.  She  needs 
a  nature  totally  different  from  mine,  a  life  unlike  the  life 
I  shall  lead.  I  will  never  try  to  make  her  love  me." 
And  he  never  did.  He  taught  her  and  trained  her,  and 
developed  her,  patiently,  exactingly,  and  yet  tenderly, 
as  if  she  had  been  his  sister;  but  he  never  betrayed 
to  her,  even  by  a  look  or  tone,  that  he  could  have  loved 


MERCY  riHLBRICK'S   CHOICE.  89 

her  as  his  wife.  No  doubt  his  influence  was  greater 
over  her  for  this  subtle,  unacknowledged  bond.  It  gave 
to  their  intercourse  a  certain  strange  mixture  of  reticence 
and  familiarity,  which  grew  more  and  more  perilous  and 
significant  month  by  month.  Probably  a  change  must 
have  come,  had  they  lived  thus  closely  together  a  year 
or  two  longer.  The  change  could  have  been  in  but  one 
direction.  They  loved  each  other  too  much  to  ever 
love  less :  they  might  have  loved  more ;  and  Mercy's 
life  had  been  more  peaceful,  her  heart  had  known  a 
truer  content,  if  she  had  never  felt  any  stronger 
emotion  than  that  which  Harley  Allen's  love  would  have 
roused  in  her  bosom.  But  his  resolution  was  inexora 
ble.  His  instinct  was  too  keen,  his  will  too  strong : 
he  compelled  all  his  home-seeking,  wife-loving  thoughts 
to  turn  away  from  Mercy;  and,  six  months  after  her 
departure,  he  had  loyally  and  lovingly  promised  to  be 
the  husband  of  another.  In  Mercy's  future  he  felt  an 
intense  interest ;  he  would  never  cease  to  watch  over  her, 
if  she  would  let  him ;  he  would  guide,  mould,  and  direct 
her,  until  the  time  came  —  he  knew  it  would  come — when 
she  had  outgrown  his  help,  and  ascended  to  a  plane 
where  he  could  no  longer  guide  her.  His  greatest  fear 
was  lest,  from  her  overflowing  vitality  and  keen  sensuous 
delight  in  all  the  surface  activities  and  pleasures  of  We, 
the  intellectual  side  of  her  nature  should  be  kept  in 
the  background  and  not  properly  nourished.  He  had 
compelled  her  to  study,  to  think,  to  write.  Who  would 
do  this  for  her  in  the  new  home  ?  He  knew  enough 
of  Stephen  White's  nature  to  fear  that  he,  while  he 


9°  MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

might  be  an  appreciative  friend,  would  not  be  a  stimu 
lating  one.  He  was  too  dreamy  and  pleasure-loving 
himself  to  be  a  spur  to  others.  A  vague  wonder,  almost 
like  a  presentiment,  haunted  his  thoughts  continually 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  relation  which  would  exist 
between  Stephen  and  Mercy.  One  day  he  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  Stephen,  telling  him  all  about  Mercy,  —  her 
history ;  her  peculiarities,  mental  and  moral ;  her  great 
need  of  mental  training;  her  wonderful  natural  gifts. 
He  closed  his  letter  in  these  words  :  — 

"  There  is  the  making  of  a  glorious  woman  and,  I  think, 
a  true  poet  in  this  girl ;  but  whether  she  ever  makes 
either  will  depend  entirely  upon  the  hands  she  falls  into. 
She  has  a  capacity  for  involuntary  adaptation  of  herself 
to  any  surroundings,  and  for  an  unconscious  and  indomi 
table  loyalty  to  the  every-day  needs  of  every-day  life, 
which  rarely  go  with  the  poetic  temperament.  She  would 
contentedly  make  bread  and  do  nothing  else,  till  the  day 
of  her  death,  if  that  seemed  to  be  the  nearest  and  most 
demanded  duty.  She  would  be  heartily  faithful  and 
joyous  every  day,  in  intercourse  with  only  common  and 
uncultivated  people,  if  fate  sets  her  among  them.  She 
seems  to  me  sometimes  to  be  more  literally  a  child  of 
God,  in  the  true  and  complete  sense  of  the  word  'child,' 
than  any  one  I  ever  knew.  She  takes  every  thing  which 
comes  to  her  just  as  a  happy  and  good  little  child  takes 
every  thing  that  is  given  to  him,  and  is  pleased  with  all  • 
yet  she  is  not  at  all  a  religious  person.  I  am  often  dis 
tressed  by  her  lack  of  impulse  to  worship.  I  think  she  has 
no  strong  sense  of  a  personal  God  ;  yet  her  conscience 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  91 

is  in  many  ways  morbidly  sensitive.  She  is  a  most 
interesting  and  absorbing  person,  —  one  entirely  unique 
in  my  experience.  Living  with  her,  as  you  will,  it  will 
be  impossible  for  you  not  to  influence  her  strongly,  one 
way  or  the  other;  and  I  want  to  enlist  your  help  to 
carry  on  the  work  I  have  begun.  She  owes  it  to  herself 
and  to  the  world  not  to  let  her  mind  be  inactive.  I  am 
very  much  mistaken  if  she  has  not  within  her  the  power 
to  write  poems,  which  shall  take  place  among  the  work 
that  lasts." 

Mr.  Allen  read  this  letter  over  several  times,  and  then, 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  tore  the  sheets  down  the 
middle,  and  threw  them  into  the  fire,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Pshaw !  as  if  there  were  any  use  in  sending  a  man 
a  portrait  of  a  woman  he  is  to  see  every  day.  If  Ste 
phen  is  the  person  to  amount  to  any  thing  in  her  life,  he 
will  recognize  her.  If  he  is  not,  all  my  descriptions  of 
her  will  be  thrown  away.  It  is  best  to  let  things  take 
their  own  course." 

After  some  deliberation,  he  decided  to  take  a  step, 
which  he  would  never  have  taken,  had  Mercy  not  been 
going  away  from  his  influence,  —  a  step  which  he  had 
again  and  again  said  to  himself  he  would  not  risk,  lest 
the  effect  might  be  to  hinder  her  intellectual  growth. 
He  sent  two  of  her  poems  to  a  friend  of  his,  who  was 
the  editor  of  one  of  the  leading  magazines  in  the  coun 
try.  The  welcome  they  met  exceeded  even  his  anticipa 
tions.  By  the  very  next  mail,  he  received  a  note  from 
his  friend,  enclosing  a  check,  which  to  Harley  Allen's 
inexperience  of  such  matters  seemed  disproportionately 


92  MERCY- PHI LBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

large.  "  Your  little  Cape  Cod  girl  is  a  wonder,  indeed," 
wrote  the  editor.  "If  she  can  keep  on  writing  such 
verse  as  this,  she  will  make  a  name  for  herself.  Send 
us  some  more :  we  '11  pay  her  well  for  it." 

Mr.  Allen  was  perplexed.  He  had  not  once  thought 
of  the  verses  being  paid  for.  He  had  thought  that  to 
see  her  poems  in  print  might  give  Mercy  a  new  incen 
tive  to  work,  might  rouse  in  her  an  ambition,  which 
would  in  part  take  the  place  of  the  stimulus  which  his 
teachings  had  given  her.  He  very  much  disliked  to  tell 
her  what  he  had  done,  and  to  give  to  her  the  money  she 
had  unwittingly  earned.  He  feared  that  she  would 
resent  it ;  he  feared  that  she  would  be  too  elated  by  it ; 
he  feared  a  dozen  different  things  in  as  many  minutes, 
as  he  sat  turning  the  check  over  and  over  in  his  hands. 
But  his  fears  were  all  unfounded.  Mercy  had  too  genu 
ine  an  artistic  nature  to  be  elated,  too  much  simplicity 
to  be  offended.  Her  first  emotion  was  one  of  incredu 
lity  ;  her  second,  of  unaffected  and  humble  wonder  that 
any  verses  of  hers  should  have  been  so  well  spoken  of; 
and  her  next,  of  childlike  glee  at  the  possibility  of  her 
earning  any  money.  She  had  not  a  trace  of  the  false 
pride  which  had  crystallized  in  her  mother's  nature  into 
such  a  barrier  against  the  idea  of  a  paid  industry. 

"  O  Mr.  Allen ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  is  it  really  possi 
ble  ?  Do  you  think  the  verses  were  really  worth  it  ?  Are 
you  quite  sure  the  editor  did  not  send  the  money  be 
cause  the  verses  were  written  by  a  friend  of  yours?" 

Harley  Allen  laughed. 

"  Editors  are  not  at  all  likely,  Mercy,"  he  said,  "  to 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  93 

pay  any  more  for  things  than  the  things  are  worth.  I 
think  you  will  some  day  laugh  heartily,  as  you  look  back 
upon  the  misgivings  with  which  you  received  the  first 
money  earned  by  your  pen.  If  you  will  only  work  faith 
fully  and  painstakingly,  you  can  do  work  which  will  be 
much  better  paid  than  this." 

Mercy's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Oh !  oh !  Then  I  can  have  books  and  pictures,  and 
take  journeys,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  such  ecstasy  that 
Mr.  Allen  was  surprised. 

"Why,  Mercy,"  he  replied,  "I  did  not  know  you  were 
such  a  discontented  girl.  Have  you  always  longed  for 
all  these  things  ? " 

"  I  'm  not  discontented,  Mr.  Allen,"  answered  Mercy, 
a  little  proudly.  "  I  never  had  a  discontented  moment 
in  my  life.  I  'm  not  so  silly.  I  have  never  yet  seen  the 
day  which  did  not  seem  to  me  brimful  and  running 
over  with  joys  and  delights ;  that  is,  except  when  I  was 
for  a  little  while  bowed  down  by  a  grief  nobody  could 
bear  up  under,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  drooping  of 
every  feature  in  her  expressive  face,  as  she  recalled  the 
one  sharp  grief  of  her  life.  "  I  don't  see  why  a  distinct 
longing  for  all  sorts  of  beautiful  things  need  be  in  the 
least  inconsistent  with  absolute  content.  In  fact,  I  know 
it  isn't ;  for  I  have  both." 

Mr.  Allen  was  not  enough  of  an  idealist  to  understand 
this.  He  looked  puzzled,  and  Mercy  went  on,  — 

"  Why,  Mr.  Allen,  I  should  like  to  have  our  home 
perfectly  beautiful,  just  like  the  most  beautiful  houses  I 
have  read  about  in  books.  I  should  like  to  have  the 


94  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

walls  hung  full  of  pictures,  and  the  rooms  filled  full  ol 
books ;  and  I  should  like  to  have  great  greenhouses  full 
ot  all  the  rare  and  exquisite  flowers  of  the  whole  world. 
[  'd  like  one  house  like  the  house  you  told  me  of,  full 
of  all  the  orchids,  and  another  full  of  only  palms  and 
ferns.  I  should  like  to  wear  always  the  costliest  of 
silks,  very  plain  and  never  of  bright  colors,  but  heavy 
and  soft  and  shining ;  and  laces  that  were  like  fleecy 
clouds  when  they  are  just  scattering.  I  should  like  to 
be  perfectly  beautiful,  and  to  have  perfectly  beautiful 
people  around  me.  But  all  this  doesn't  make  me  one 
bit  less  contented.  I  care  just  as  much  for  my  few  little, 
old  books,  and  my  two  or  three  pictures,  and  our  beds 
of  sweet-williams  and  pinks.  They  all  give  me  such 
pleasure  that  I  'm  just  glad  I  'm  alive  every  minute. 
—  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Mr.  Allen !  "  exclaimed 
Mercy,  breaking  off  and  coloring  scarlet,  as  she  became 
suddenly  aware  that  her  pastor  was  gazing  at  her  with  a 
scrutinizing  look  she  had  never  seen  on  his  face  before. 

"  Of  your  future  life,  Mercy,  —  of  your  future  life.  I  am 
wondering  what  it  will  be,  and  if  the  dear  Lord  will  carry 
you  safe  through  all  the  temptations  which  the  world 
must  offer  to  one  so  sensitive  as  you  are  to  all  its  beau 
ties,"  replied  Mr.  Allen,  sadly.  Mercy  was  displeased. 
She  was  always  intolerant  of  this  class  of  references  to 
the  Lord.  Her  sense  of  honesty  took  alarm  at  them. 
In  a  curt  and  half-petulant  tone,  she  answered,  — 

"I  suppose  ministers  have  to  say  such  things,  Mr. 
Allen ;  but  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  them  to  me.  I  do  not 
think  that  the  Lord  made  the  beautiful  things  in  thig 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  95 

world  for  temptations ;  and  I  believe  he  expects  us  to 
keep  ourselves  out  of  mischief,  and  not  throw  the  re 
sponsibility  on  to  him  !  " 

"  Oh,  Mercy,  Mercy !  don't  say  such  things !  They 
sound  irreverent :  they  shock  me ! "  exclaimed  Mr, 
Allen,  deeply  pained  by  Mercy's  tone  and  words. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  shock  you,  Mr.  Allen,"  replied 
Mercy,  in  a  gentler  tone.  "  Pray  forgive  me.  I  do  not 
think,  however,  there  is  half  as  much  real  irreverence  in 
saying  that  the  Lord  expects  us  to  look  out  for  ourselves 
and  keep  out  of  mischief  as  there  is  in  teaching  that  he 
made  a  whole  world  full  of  people  so  weak  and  miser 
able  that  they  couldn't  look  after  themselves,  and  had 
to  be  lifted  along  all  the  time." 

Mr.  Allen  shook  his  head,  and  sighed.  When  Mercy 
was  in  this  frame  of  mind,  it  was  of  no  use  to  argue 
with  her.  He  returned  to  the  subject  of  her  poetry. 

"  If  you  will  keep  on  reading  and  studying,  Mercy,  and 
will  compel  yourself  to  write  and  rewrite  carefully,  there 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  have  a  genuine  success 
as  a  writer,  and  put  yourself  in  a  position  to  earn  money 
enough  to  buy  a  great  many  comforts  and  pleasures  for 
yourself,  and  your  mother  also,"  he  said. 

At  the  mention  of  her  mother,  Mercy  started,  and  ex 
claimed  irrelevantly, — 

"  Dear  me !  I  never  once  thought  of  mother." 

Mr.  Allen  looked,  as  well  he  might,  mystified.  "  Nevei 
once  thought  of  her !  What  do  you  mean,  Mercy  ? " 

"Why,  I  mean  I  never  once  thought  about  telling  hei 
about  the  money.  She  wouldn't  like  it." 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE 


'"Why  not?  I  should  think  she  would  not  only  like 
the  money,  but  be  very  proud  of  your  being  able  to  earn 
it  in  such  a  way." 

"  Perhaps  that  might  make  a  difference,"  said  Mercy, 
reflectively  :  "  it  would  seem  quite  different  to  her  from 
taking  in  sewing,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  so,"  laughed  Mr.  Allen.  "  Very 
different,  indeed." 

"  But  it  's  earning  money,  working  for  money,  all  the 
same,"  continued  Mercy;  "and  you  haven't  the  least 
idea  how  mother  feels  about  that.  Father  must  have 
been  full  of  queer  notions.  She  got  it  all  from  him. 
But  I  can't  see  that  there  is  any  difference  between  a 
woman's  taking  money  for  what  she  can  do,  and  a  man's 
taking  money  for  what  he  can  do.  I  can  do  sewing, 
and  you  can  preach  ;  and  of  the  two,  if  people  must  go 
without  one  or  the  other,  they  could  do  without  sermons 
better  than  without  clothes,  —  eh,  Mr.  Allen  ?  "  and  Mercy 
laughed  mischievously.  "  But  once  when  I  told  mother 
I  believed  I  would  turn  dressmaker  for  the  town,  I  knew 
I  could  earn  ever  so  much  money,  besides  doing  a  phil 
anthropy  in  getting  some  decent  gowns  into  the  commu 
nity,  she  was  so  horrified  and  unhappy  at  the  bare  idea 
that  I  never  have  forgotten  it.  It  is  just  so  with  ever 
so  many  women  here.  They  would  rather  half-starve 
than  do  any  thing  to  earn  money.  For  my  part,  I  think 
it  is  nonsense." 

"  Certainly,  Mercy,  —  certainly  it  is,"  replied  Mr.  Allen, 
anxious  lest  this  new  barrier  should  come  between  Mercy 
and  her  work.  "  It  is  only  a  prejudice.  And  you  need 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  97 

never  let  your  mother  know  any  thing  about  it.  She  is 
so  old  and  feeble  it  would  not  be  worth  while  to  worry 
her." 

Mercy's  eyes  grew  dark  and  stern  as  she  fixed  them 
on  Mr.  Allen.  "  I  wonder  I  believe  any  thing  you  say, 
Mr.  Allen.  How  many  things  do  you  keep  back  1;  om 
me,  or  state  differently  from  what  they  are,  to  save  my 
feelings  ?  or  to  adapt  the  truth  to  my  feebleness,  which 
is  not  like  the  feebleness  of  old  age,  to  be  sure,  but 
is  feebleness  in  comparison  with  your  knowledge  and 
strength  ?  I  hate,  hate,  hate,  your  theories  about  deceiv 
ing  people.  I  shall  certainly  tell  my  mother,  if  I  keep 
on  writing,  and  am  paid  for  it,"  she  said  impetuously. 

"  Very  well.  Of  course,  if  you  think  it  wrong  to  leave 
her  in  ignorance  about  it,  you  must  tell  her.  I  myself  see 
no  reason  for  your  mentioning  the  fact,  unless  you  choose 
to.  You  are  a  mature  and  independent  woman :  she  is 
old  and  childish.  The  relation  between  you  is  really 
reversed.  You  are  the  mother,  and  she  the  child.  Sup 
pose  she  had  become  a  writer  when  you  were  a  little 
girl :  would  it  have  been  her  duty  to  tell  you  of  it  ? "  re 
plied  Mr.  Allen. 

"  J  don't  care  !  I  shall  tell  her !  I  never  have  kept 
the  least  thing  from  her  yet,  and  I  don't  believe  I  ever 
will,"  said  Mercy.  "  You  '11  never  make  me  think  it 's 
right,  Mr.  Allen.  What  a  good  Jesuit  you  'd  have  made, 
wouldn't  you  ? " 

Mr.  Allen  colored.  "  Oh,  child,  how  unjust  you  are  I " 
he  exclaimed.  "  But  it  must  be  all  my  stupid  way  of 
putting  things.  One  of  these  days,  you  '11  see  it  all  differ 
ently." 

a 


98  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

And  she  did.  Firm  as  were  her  resolutions  to  tell 
her  mother  every  thing,  she  could  not  find  courage 
to  tell  her  about  the  verses  and  the  price  paid  for  them. 
Again  and  again  she  had  approached  the  subject,  and 
had  been  frightened  back,  —  sometimes  by  her  own  uncon 
querable  dislike  to  speaking  of  her  poetry ;  sometimes, 
as  in  the  instance  above,  by  an  outbreak  on  her  mother's 
part  of  indignation  at  the  bare  suggestion  of  her  earn 
ing  money.  After  that  conversation,  Mercy  resolved 
within  herself  to  postpone  the  day  of  the  revelation, 
until  there  should  be  more  to  tell  and  more  to  show. 

"  If  ever  I  have  a  hundred  dollars,  I  '11  tell  her  then," 
she  thought.  "  So  much  money  as  that  would  make  it 
seem  better  to  her.  And  I  will  have  a  good  many  verses 
by  that  time  to  read  to  her."  And  so  the  secret  grew 
bigger  and  heavier,  and  yet  Mercy  grew  more  used  to 
carrying  it,  until  she  herself  began  to  doubt  whether 
Mr.  Allen  were  not  right,  after  all ;  and  if  it  would  not 
be  a  pity  to  trouble  the  feeble  old  heart  with  a  needless 
perplexity  and  pain. 


MERCY  PUILBRICK'S   CHOICE  99 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHEN  Stephen  White  saw  his  new  tenants'  first 
preparations  for  moving  into  his  house,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  strangely  mingled  feeling,  half  irritation, 
and  half  delight.  Four  weeks  had  passed  since  the 
unlucky  evening  on  which  he  had  taken  Mercy  to  his 
mother's  room,  and  he  had  not  seen  her  face  again. 
He  had  called  at  the  hotel  twice,  but  had  found  only 
Mrs.  Carr  at  home.  Mercy  had  sent  a  messenger  with 
only  a  verbal  message,  when  she  wished  the  key  of  the 
house. 

She  had  an  undefined  feeling  that  she  would  not 
come  into  any  relation  with  Stephen  White,  if  it  could 
be  avoided.  She  was  heartily  glad  that  she  had  not 
been  in  the  house  when  he  called.  And  yet,  had  she 
been  in  the  habit  of  watching  her  own  mental  states, 
she  would  have  discovered  that  Stephen  White  was 
very  much  in  her  thoughts ;  that  she  had  come  to 
wondering  why  she  never  met  him  in  her  walks ;  and, 
what  was  still  more  significant,  to  mistaking  other  men 
for  him,  at  a  distance.  This  is  one  of  the  oddest  tricks 
of  a  brain  preoccupied  with  the  image  of  one  human 
being.  One  would  think  that  it  would  make  the  eye 
clearer  sighted,  well-nigh  infallible,  in  the  recognition 


100  MERCY  PHILBRTCK'S   CHOICE. 

of  the  loved  form.  Not  at  all.  Waiting  for  her  lover 
to  appear,  a  woman  will  stand  wearily  watching  at  a 
window,  and  think  fifty  times  in  sixty  minutes  that  she 
sees  him  coming.  Tall  men,  short  men,  dark  men,  light 
men ;  men  with  Spanish  cloaks,  and  men  in  surtouts,  — 
all  wear,  at  a  little  distance,  a  tantalizing  likeness  to  the 
one  whom  they  in  no  wise  resemble. 

After  such  a  watching  as  this,  the  very  eye  becomes 
disordered,  as  after  looking  at  a  bright  color  it  sees  a 
spectrum  of  a  totally  different  tint ;  and,  when  the  long 
looked-for  person  appears,  he  himself  looks  unnatural 
at  first,  and  strange.  How  well  many  women  know  this 
curious  fact  in  love's  optics !  I  doubt  if  men  ever 
watch  long  enough,  and  longingly  enough,  for  a  woman's 
coming,  to  be  so  familiar  with  the  phenomenon. 
Stephen  White,  however,  had  more  than  once  during 
these  four  weeks  quickened  his  pace  to  overtake  some 
slender  figure  clad  in  black,  never  doubting  that  it  was 
Mercy  Philbrick,  until  he  came  so  near  that  his  eyes 
were  forced  to  tell  him  the  truth.  It  was  truly  a  strange 
thing  that  he  and  Mercy  did  not  once  meet  during  all 
these  weeks.  It  was  no  doubt  an  important  element  in 
the  growth  of  their  relation,  this  interval  of  unacknowl 
edged  and  combated  curiosity  about  each  other. 
Nature  has  a  myriad  of  ways  of  bringing  about  her 
results.  Seed-time  and  harvest  are  constant,  and  the 
seasons  all  keep  their  routine ;  but  no  two  fields  have 
the  same  method  or  measure  in  the  summer's  or  the 
winter's  dealings.  Hearts  lie  fallow  sometimes;  and 
seeds  of  love  swell  very  big  in  the  ground,  all  undis 
turbed  and  unsuspected. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  IOI 

When  Mercy  and  her  mother  drove  up  to  the  house, 
Stephen  was  standing  at  his  mother's  window.  It  was 
just  at  dusk. 

"  Here  they  are,  mother,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  will 
go  out  and  meet  them." 

Mrs.  White  lifted  her  eyes  very  slowly  towards  her 
son,  and  spoke  in  the  measured  syllables  and  unvibrat- 
ing  tone  which  always  marked  her  utterance  when  she 
was  displeased. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  under  any  obligation  to  do 
that  ?  Suppose  they  had  hired  a  house  of  you  in  some 
other  part  of  the  town :  would  you  have  felt  called  upon 
to  pay  them  that  attention  ?  I  do  not  know  what  the 
usual  duties  of  a  landlord  are.  You  know  best." 

Stephen  colored.  This  was  the  worst  of  his  mother's 
many  bad  traits,  —  an  instinctive,  unreasoning,  and  un 
reasonable  jealousy  of  any  mark  of  attention  or  con 
sideration  shown  to  any  other  person  than  herself, 
even  if  it  did  not  in  the  smallest  way  interfere  with  her 
comfort;  and  this  cold,  sarcastic  manner  of  speaking 
was,  of  all  the  forms  of  her  ill-nature,  the  one  he  found 
most  unbearable.  He  made  no  reply,  but  stood  still  at 
the  window,  watching  Mercy's  light  and  literally  joyful 
movements,  as  she  helped  her  mother  out  of,  and  down 
from,  the  antiquated  old  carriage,  and  carried  parcel 
after  parcel  and  laid  them  on  the  doorstep. 

Mrs.  White  continued  in  the  same  sarcastic  tone,  — 

"Pray  go  and  help  move  all  their  baggage  in,  Ste 
phen,  if  it  would  give  you  any  pleasure.  It  is  nothing 
to  me,  I  am  sure,  if  you  choose  to  be  all  the  time  doing 


102  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

all  sorts  of  things  for  everybody.  I  don't  see  the  leas! 
occasion  for  it,  that 's  all." 

"It  seems  to  me  only  common  neighborliness  and 
friendly  courtesy,  mother,"  replied  Stephen,  gently. 
"  But  you  know  you  and  I  never  agree  upon  such  points. 
Our  views  are  radically  different,  and  it  is  best  not  tc 
discuss  them." 

"  Views ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  White,  in  a  voice  mon» 
like  the  low  growl  of  some  animal  than  like  any  sound 
possible  to  human  organs.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  an/ 
thing  about  '  views '  about  such  a  trifle.  Why  don't 
you  go,  if  you  want  to,  and  be  done  with  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  answered  Stephen,  in  the  same 
unruffled  tone.  "  They  have  gone  in,  and  the  carriage 
is  driving  off." 

"  Well,  perhaps  they  would  like  to  have  you  put  down 
their  carpets  for  them,  or  open  their  boxes,"  sneered 
Mrs.  White,  still  with  the  same  intolerable  sarcastic 
manner.  "  I  don't  doubt  they  could  find  some  use  for 
your  services." 

"  O  mother,  don't ! "  pleaded  Stephen,  "  please  don't. 
I  do  not  wish  to  go  near  them  or  ever  see  them,  if  it  will 
make  you  any  less  happy.  Do  let  us  talk  of  something 
else." 

"Who  ever  said  a  word  about  your  not  going  near 
them,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?  Have  I  ever  tried  to  shut  you 
up,  or  keep  you  from  going  anywhere  you  wanted  to  ? 
Answer  me  that,  will  you  ? " 

"No,  mother,"  answered  Stephen,  "you  never  have. 
But  I  wish  I  could  make  you  happier." 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  103 

"You  do  make  me  very  happy,  Steve,"  said  Mrs. 
White,  mollified  by  the  gentle  answer.  "  You  're  a  good 
boy,  and  always  was;  but  it  does  vex  me  to  see  you 
always  so  ready  to  be  at  everybody's  beck  and  call ;  and, 
where  it 's  a  woman,  it  naturally  vexes  me  more.  You 
wouldn't  want  to  run  any  risk  of  being  misunderstood, 
or  making  a  woman  care  about  you  more  than  she 
ought." 

Stephen  stared.  This  was  a  new  field.  Had  his 
mother  gone  already  thus  far  in  her  thoughts  about 
Mercy  Philbrick  ?  And  was  her  only  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  the  young  woman's  caring  for  him,  and  not 
in  the  least  of  his  caring  for  her  ? 

And  what  would  ever  become  of  the  peace  of  their 
daily  life,  if  this  kind  of  jealousy  —  the  most  exacting, 
most  insatiable  jealousy  in  the  world  —  were  to  grow 
up  in  her  heart  ?  Stephen  was  dumb  with  despair. 
The  apparent  confidential  friendliness  and  assump 
tion  of  a  tacit  understanding  and  agreement  between 
him  and  her  on  the  matter,  with  which  his  mother 
had  said,  "You  wouldn't  want  to  be  misunderstood, 
or  make  a  woman  care  more  for  you  than  she 
ought,"  struck  terror  to  his  very  soul.  The  apparent 
amicableness  of  her  remark  at  the  present  moment  did 
not  in  the  least  blind  him  to  the  enormous  possibilities 
of  future  misery  involved  in  such  a  train  of  feeling  and 
thought  on  her  part.  He  foresaw  himself  involved  in  a 
perfect  network  of  espionage  and  cross-questioning  and 
suspicion,  in  comparison  with  which  all  he  had  hitherto 
borne  at  his  mother's  hands  would  seem  trivial.  All 


104  MERCY  PlllLBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

this  flashed  through  his  mind  in  the  brief  instant  that 
he  hesitated  before  he  replied  in  an  off-hand  tone,  which 
for  once  really  blinded  his  mother,  — 

"Goodness,  mother!  whatever  put  such  ideas  into 
your  head  ?  Of  course  I  should  never  run  any  such  risk 
as  that." 

"A  man  can't  possibly  be  too  careful,"  remarked 
Mrs.  White,  sententiously.  "  The  world  's  full  of  gos 
siping  people,  and  women  are  very  impressionable,  es 
pecially  such  high-strung  women  as  that  young  widow. 
A  man  can't  possibly  be  too  careful.  Read  me  the 
paper  now,  Stephen." 

Stephen  was  only  too  thankful  to  take  refuge  in  and 
behind  the  newspaper.  A  newspaper  had  so  often  been 
to  him  a  shelter  from  his  mother's  eyes,  a  protection 
from  his  mother's  tongue,  that,  whenever  he  saw  a  storm 
or  a  siege  of  embarrassing  questioning  about  to  begin, 
he  looked  around  for  a  newspaper  as  involuntarily  as  a 
soldier  feels  in  his  belt  for  his  pistol.  He  had  more 
than  once  smiled  bitterly  to  himself  at  the  conscious 
ness  of  the  flimsy  bulwark;  but  he  found  it  invalu 
able.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  her  impatient  instinct  made 
a  keen  thrust  at  the  truth,  and  she  would  say  angrily,  — 

"  Put  down  that  paper !  I  want  to  see  your  face  when 
1  speak  to  you;"  but  his  reply,  "Why,  mother,  I  am 
reading.  I  was  just  going  to  read  something  aloud 
to  you,"  would  usually  disarm  and  divert  her.  It  was 
one  of  her  great  pleasures  to  have  him  read  aloud  to 
her.  It  mattered  little  what  he  read :  she  was  equally 
interested  in  the  paragraphs  of  small  local  news,  and 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  105 

in  the  telegraphic  summaries  of  foreign  affairs.  A 
revolt  in  a  distant  European  province,  of  which  she  had 
never  heard  even  the  name,  was  neither  more  nor  less 
exciting  to  her  than  the  running  away  of  a  heifer  from 
the  premises  of  an  unknown  townsman. 

All  through  the  evening,  the  sounds  of  moving  of  fur 
niture,  and  brisk  going  up  and  down  stairs,  came  through 
the  partition,  and  interrupted  Stephen's  thoughts  as  much 
as  they  did  his  mother's.  They  had  lived  so  long  alone 
in  the  house  in  absolute  quiet,  save  for  the  semi-occa 
sional  stir  of  Marty's  desultory  house-cleaning,  that 
these  sounds  were  disturbing,  and  not  pleasant  to  hear. 
Stephen  did  not  like  them  much  better  than  his  mother 
did ;  and  he  gave  her  great  pleasure  by  remarking,  as  he 
bade  her  good-night,  — 

"  I  suppose  those  people  next  door  will  get  settled  in 
a  day  or  two,  and  then  we  can  have  a  quiet  evening 
again." 

"  I  should  hope,  so,"  replied  his  mother.  "  I  should 
think  that  a  caravan  of  camels  needn't  have  made  so 
much  noise.  It 's  astonishing  to  me  that  folks  can't  do 
things  without  making  a  racket ;  but  I  think  some  peo 
ple  feel  themselves  of  more  consequence  when  they  're 
making  a  great  noise." 

The  next  morning,  as  Stephen  was  bidding  his  mother 
good-morning,  he  accidentally  glanced  out  of  the  win 
dow,  and  saw  Mercy  walking  slowly  away  from  the  house 
with  a  little  basket  on  her  arm. 

"  She  '11  go  to  market  every  morning,"  he  thought  to 
himself.     "  I  shall  see  her  then." 
6* 


106  MERCY  PHI LB RICK'S   CHOICE. 

Not  the  slightest  glance  of  Stephen's  eye  ever  escaped 
his  mother's  notice. 

"  Ah !  there  goes  the  lady,"  she  said.  "  I  wonder  if 
she  is  always  going  down  town  at  this  hour  ?  You  will 
have  to  manage  to  go  either  earlier  or  later,  or  else  peo 
ple  will  begin  to  talk  about  you." 

Stephen  White  had  one  rule  of  conduct :  when  he  was 
uncertain  what  to  do,  not  to  do  any  thing.  He  broke  it 
in  this  instance,  and  had  reason  to  regret  it  long.  He 
spoke  impulsively  on  the  instant,  and  revealed  to  his 
mother  his  dawning  interest  in  Mercy,  and  planted  then 
and  there  an  ineffaceable  germ  of  distrust  in  her  mind. 

"  Now,  mother,"  he  said,  "  what 's  the  use  of  your 
beginning  to  set  up  this  new  worry  ?  Mrs.  Philbrick  is 
a  widow,  and  very  sad  and  lonely.  She  is  the  friend  of 
my  friend,  Harley  Allen ;  and  I  am  in  duty  bound  to 
show  her  some  attention,  and  help  her  if  I  can.  She  is 
also  a  bright,  interesting  person ;  and  I  do  not  know  so 
many  such  that  I  should  turn  my  back  on  one  under  my 
own  roof.  I  have  not  so  many  social  pleasures  that  I 
should  give  up  this  one,  just  on  account  of  a  possible 
gossip  about  it." 

Silence  would  have  been  wiser.  Mrs.  White  did  not 
speak  for  a  moment  or  two  ;  then  she  said,  in  a  slow  and 
deliberate  manner,  as  if  reflecting  on  a  problem,  — 

"You  enjoy  Mrs.  Philbrick's  society,  then,  do  you, 
Stephen  ?  How  much  have  you  seen  of  her  ? " 

Still  injudicious  and  unlike  himself,  Stephen  answered, 

"Yes,  I  think  I  shall  enjoy  it  very  much,  and  I  think 
you  will  enjoy  it  more  than  I  shall ;  for  you  may  see  a 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  107 

great  deal  of  her.  I  have  only  seen  her  once,  you 
know." 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  will  care  any  thing  about  me," 
replied  Mrs.  White,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  last  personal 
pronoun  which  spoke  volumes.  "  Very  few  people  do." 

Stephen  made  no  reply.  It  had  just  dawned  on  his 
consciousness  that  he  had  been  blundering  frightfully, 
and  his  mind  stood  still  for  a  moment,  as  a  man  halts 
suddenly,  when  he  finds  himself  in  a  totally  wrong  road. 
To  turn  short  about  is  not  always  the  best  way  of  get 
ting  off  a  wrong  road,  though  it  may  be  the  quickest 
way.  Stephen  turned  short  about,  and  exclaimed  with 
a  forced  laugh,  "  Well,  mother,  I  don't  suppose  it  will 
make  any  great  difference  to  you,  if  she  doesn't.  It  is 
not  a  matter  of  any  moment,  anyhow,  whether  we  see 
any  thing  of  either  of  them  or  not.  I  thought  she  seemed 
a  bright,  cheery  sort  of  body,  that 's  all.  Good-by,"  and 
he  ran  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  White  lay  for  a  long  time  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  wall.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  of  mingled 
perplexity  and  displeasure.  After  a  time,  these  gave 
place  to  a  more  composed  and  defiant  look.  She  had 
taken  her  resolve,  had  marked  out  her  line  of  conduct. 

"I  won't  say  another  word  to  Stephen  about  her," 
she  thought.  "I'll  just  watch  and  see  how  things  go. 
Nothing  can  happen  in  this  house  without  my  know 
ing  it." 

The  mischief  was  done ;  but  Mrs.  White  was  very 
much  mistaken  in  the  last  clause  of  her  soliloquy. 

Meantime,  Mercy  was  slowly  walking  towards  the  vil 


108  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE, 

lage,  revolving  her  own  little  perplexities,  and  with  a  mind 
much  freer  from  the  thought  of  Stephen  White  than  it 
had  been  for  four  weeks.  Mercy  was  in  a  dilemma. 
Their  clock  was  broken,  hopelessly  broken.  It  had 
been  packed  in  too  frail  a  box ;  and  heavier  boxes  placed 
above  it  had  crashed  through,  making  a  complete  wreck 
of  the  whole  thing,  —  frame,  works,  all.  It  was  a  high, 
old-fashioned  Dutch  clock,  and  had  stood  in  the  corner 
of  their  sitting-room  ever  since  Mercy  could  recollect. 
It  had  belonged  to  her  father's  father,  and  had  been  her 
mother's  wedding  gift  from  him. 

"  It 's  easy  enough  to  get  a  clock  that  will  keep  good 
time,"  thought  Mercy,  as  she  walked  along;  "but,  oh, 
how  I  shall  miss  the  dear  old  thing !  It  looked  like  a 
sort  of  belfry  in  the  corner.  I  wonder  if  there  are  any 
such  clocks  to  be  bought  anywhere  nowadays  ? "  She 
stopped  presently  before  a  jeweller's  and  watchmaker's 
shop  in  the  Brick  Row,  and  eagerly  scrutinized  the  long 
line  of  clocks  standing  in  the  window.  Very  ugly  they 
all  were,  —  cheap,  painted  wood,  of  a  shining  red,  and 
tawdry  pictures  on  the  doors,  which  ran  up  to  a  sharj 
point  in  a  travesty  of  the  Gothic  arch  outline. 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  sighed  Mercy,  involuntarily  aloud. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Bless  my  soul ! "  fell  suddenly  upor 
her  ear,  in  sharp,  jerking  syllables,  accompanied  br 
clicking  taps  of  a  cane  on  the  sidewalk.  She  turned  and 
looked  into  the  face  of  her  friend,  "  Old  Man  Wheeler," 
who  was  standing  so  near  her  that  with  each  of  his 
rapid  shillings  from  foot  to  foot  he  threatened  to  tread 
on  the  hem  of  her  gown. 


MERCY  PIULBRICK'S   CHOICE.  IOC} 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Bless  my  soul !  Glad  to  see  ye. 
Missed  your  face.  How  're  ye  gettin'  on  ?  Gone  into 
your  house  ?  How  's  your  mother  ?  I  '11  come  see  you, 
if  you  're  settled.  Don't  go  to  see  anybody,  —  never  go  ! 
never  go  !  People  are  all  wolves,  wolves,  wolves ;  but 
I  '11  come  an'  see  you.  Like  your  face,  —  good  face, 
good  face.  What  're  you  lookin'  at?  What  're  you 
lookin'  at  ?  Ain't  goin'  to  buy  any  thin'  out  o'  that  win 
der,  be  ye  ?  Trash,  trash,  trash  !  People  are  all  cheats, 
cheats,"  said  the  old  man,  breathlessly. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  '11  have  to,  sir,"  replied  Mercy,  vainly 
trying  to  keep  the  muscles  of  her  face  quiet.  "  I  must 
buy  a  clock.  Our  clock  got  broken  on  the  way." 

"  Broken  ?  Clock  broken  ?  Mend  it,  mend  it,  child. 
I  '11  show  you  a  good  man,  not  this  feller  in  here,  — 
he  's  only  good  for  outsides.  Holler  sham,  holler  sham  1 
What  kind  o'  clock  was  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  that 's  the  worst  of  it.  It  was  an  old  clock 
my  grandfather  brought  from  Holland.  It  reached  up 
to  the  ceiling,  and  had  beautiful  carved  work  on  it.  But 
it  's  in  five  hundred  pieces,  I  do  believe.  A  heavy  box 
crushed  it.  Even  the  brass  work  inside  is  all  jammed 
and  twisted.  Our  things  came  by  sea,"  replied  Mercy. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Bless  my  soul !  Come  on,  come 
on  !  I  '11  show  you,"  exclaimed  the  eccentric  old  m.m, 
starting  off  at  a  quick  pace.  Mercy  did  not  stir.  Pres 
ently,  he  looked  back,  wheeled,  and  came  again  so 
near  that  he  nearly  trod  on  her  gown. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Didn't  tell  her,  —  bad  habit,  bad 
habit.  Never  do  make  people  understand.  Come  on, 


HO  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

child,  —  come  on  !  I  've  got  a  clock  like  yours.  Don't 
want  it.  Never  use  it.  Run  down  twenty  years  ago. 
Guess  we  can  find  it.  Come  on,  come  on ! "  he  ex 
claimed. 

"But,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  said  Mercy,  half-frightened  at 
his  manner,  yet  trusting  him  in  spite  of  herself,  "  do  you 
really  want  to  sell  the  clock  ?  If  you  have  no  use  for  it, 
I  'd  be  very  glad  to  buy  it  of  you,  if  it  looks  even  a  little 
like  our  old  one.  I  will  bring  my  mother  to  look  at  it." 

"  Fine  young  woman !  fine  young  woman !  Good 
face.  Never  mistaken  in  a  face  yet.  Don't  sell  clocks : 
never  sold  a  clock  yet.  I  '11  give  yer  the  clock,  if  yer 
like  it.  Come  on,  child,  — come  on  !  "  and  he  laid  his 
hand  on  Mercy's  arm  and  drew  her  along. 

Mercy  held  back.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  she 
said.  "You  're  very  kind.  But  I  think  my  mother 
would  not  like  to  have  you  give  us  a  clock.  I  will  buy 
it  of  you ;  but  I  really  cannot  go  with  you  now.  Tell  me 
where  the  clock  is,  and  I  will  come  with  my  mother  to 
see  it." 

The  old  man  stamped  his  foot  and  his  cane  both  with 
impatience.  "Pshaw!  pshaw!"  he  said:  "women  all 
alike,  all  alike."  Then  with  an  evident  effort  to  control 
his  vexation,  and  speak  more  slowly,  he  said,  "  Can't  you 
see  I  'm  an  old  man,  child  ?  Don't  pester  me  now.  Come, 
on,  come  on !  I  tell  you  I  want  to  show  yer  that  clock. 
Give  it  to  you  's  well  's  not.  Stood  in  the  lumber- 
room  twenty  years.  Come  on,  come  on  !  It 's  right  up 
here,  ten  steps."  And  again  he  took  Mercy  by  the  arm. 
Reluctantly  she  followed  him,  thinking  to  herself,  "  Oh, 


MERCY  1  HiLBRlCK'S   CHOICE.  Ill 

what  a  rash  thing  this  is  to  do  !     How  do  I  know  but  he 
really  is  crazy  ? " 

He  led  the  way  up  an  outside  staircase  at  the  end 
of  the  Brick  Row,  and,  after  fumbling  a  long  time  in 
several  deep  pockets,  produced  a  huge  rusty  iron  key, 
and  unlocked  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  A 
very  strange  life  that  key  had  led  in  pockets.  For 
many  years  it  had  slept  under  Miss  Orra  White's  maid 
enly  black  alpacas,  and  had  been  the  token  of  con 
finement  and  of  release  to  scores  of  Miss  Orra's  unruly 
pupils ;  then  it  had  had  an  interval  of  dignified  leisure, 
lifted  to  the  level  of  the  Odd  Fellows  regalia,  and  only 
used  by  them  on  rare  occasions.  For  the  last  ten  years, 
however,  it  had  done  miscellaneous  duty  as  warder  of 
Old  Man  Wheeler's  lumber-room.  If  a  key  could  be 
supposed  to  peep  through  a  keyhole,  and  speculate  on 
the  nature  of  the  service  it  was  rendering  to  humanity, 
in  keeping  safe  the  contents  of  the  room  into  which  it 
gazed,  this  key  might  have  indulged  in  fine  conjectures, 
and  have  passed  its  lifetime  in  a  state  of  chronic  be 
wilderment.  Each  time  that  the  door  of  this  old  store 
house  opened,  it  opened  to  admit  some  new,  strange, 
nondescript  article,  bearing  no  relation  to  any  thing 
that  had  preceded  it.  "  Old  Man  Wheeler  "  added  to 
all  his  other  eccentricities  a  most  eccentric  way  of  col 
lecting  his  debts.  He  had  dealings  of  one  sort  or 
another  with  everybody.  He  drove  hard  bargains,  and 
was  inexorable  as  to  dates.  When  a  debtor  came,  plead 
ing  for  a  short  delay  on  a  payment,  the  old  man  bad 
but  one  reply, — 


112  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  What  yer  got  ?  what  yer  got  ?  Gie 
me  somethin',  gie  me  somethin'.  Settle,  settle,  settle ! 
Gie  me  any  thin'  yer  got.  Settle,  settle,  settle  !  "  The 
consequences  of  twenty  years'  such  traffic  as  this  can 
more  easily  be  imagined  than  described.  The  room 
was  piled  from  floor  to  roof  with  its  miscellaneous 
collections :  junk-shops,  pawnbrokers'  cellars,  and  old 
women's  garrets  seemed  all  to  have  disgorged  them 
selves  here.  A  huge  stack  of  calico  comforters,  their 
tufts  gray  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  lay  on  top  of  two  old 
ploughs,  in  one  corner :  kegs  of  nails,  boxes  of  soap, 
rolls  of  leather,  harnesses  stiff  and  cracking  with  age, 
piles  of  books,  chairs,  bedsteads,  andirons,  tubs,  stone 
ware,  crockery  ware,  carpets,  files  of  old  newspapers, 
casks,  feather-beds,  jars  of  druggists'  medicines,  old 
signboards,  rakes,  spades,  school-desks,  —  in  short,  all 
things  that  mortal  man  ever  bought  or  sold,  — were  here, 
packed  in  piles  and  layers,  and  covered  with  dust  as  with 
a  gray  coverlid.  At  each  foot-fall  on  the  loose  boards 
of  the  floor,  clouds  of  stifling  dust  arose,  and  strange 
sounds  were  heard  in  and  behind  the  piles  of  rubbish,  as 
if  all  sorts  of  small  animals  might  be  skurrying  about, 
and  giving  alarms  to  each  other. 

Mercy  stood  still  on  the  threshold,  her  face  full  of 
astonishment.  The  dust  made  her  cough ;  and  at  first 
she  could  hardly  see  which  way  to  step.  The  old  man 
threw  down. his  cane,  and  ran  swiftly  from  corner  to 
corner,  and  pile  to  pile,  peering  around,  pulling  out 
first  one  thing  and  then  another.  He  darted  from  spot 
to  spot,  bending  lower  and  lower,  as  he  grew  more  im- 


MERCY  PUILBRI CK'S   CHOICE.  I  1 3 

patient  in  his  search,  till  he  looked  like  a  sort  of  human 
weasel  gliding  about  in  quest  of  prey. 

"  Trash,  trash,  nothin'  but  trash ! "  he  muttered  to 
himself  as  he  ran.  "Burn  it  up  some  day.  Trash, 
trash ! " 

"  How  did  you  get  all  these  queer  things  together, 
Mr.  Wheeler  ?  "  Mercy  ventured  to  say  at  last.  "  Did 
you  keep  a  store  ? " 

The  old  man  did  not  reply.  He  was  tugging  away 
at  a  high  stack  of  rolls  of  undressed  leather,  which 
reached  to  the  ceiling  in  one  corner.  He  pulled  them 
too  hastily,  and  the  whole  stack  tumbled  fonvard,  and 
rolled  heavily  in  all  directions,  raising  a  suffocating  dust, 
through  which  the  old  man's  figure  seemed  to  loom  up 
as  through  a  fog,  as  he  skipped  to  the  right  and  left 
to  escape  the  rolling  bales. 

"  O  Mr.  Wheeler ! "  cried  Mercy,  "  are  you  hurt  ? " 

He  laughed  a  choked  laugh,  more  like  a  chuckle  than 
like  a  laugh. 

"  He  !  he  !  child.  Dust  don't  hurt  me.  Coin'  to  re 
turn  to  't  presently.  Made  on  't !  made  on  't !  Don't  see 
why  folks  need  be  so  'fraid  on  't !  He  !  he  !  'T  is  pretty 
choky,  though."  And  he  sat  down  on  one  of  the  leather 
rolls,  and  held  his  sides  through  a  hard  coughing  fit.  As 
the  dust  slowly  subsided,  Mercy  saw  standing  far  back 
in  the  corner,  where  the  bales  of  leather  had  hidden  it, 
an  old-fashioned  clock,  so  like  her  own  that  she  gave 
a  low  cry  of  surprise. 

"  Oh,  is  that  the  clock  you  meant,  Mr.  Wheeler  ? "  she 
exclaimed. 


1 14  MERCY  PHfLBRICK'S   CHOICE 

"  Yes,  yes,  that 's  it.  Nice  old  clock.  Took  it  for  debt. 
Cost  me  more  'n  't  's  wuth.  As  fur  that  matter,  'tain't 
wuth  nothin'  to  me.  Wouldn't  hev  it  in  the  house  'n' 
more  than  I  'd  git  the  town  'us  tower  in  for  a  clock.  D' 
ye  like  it,  child  ?  Ye  can  hev  it 's  well 's  not.  I  'd  like 
to  give  it  to  ye." 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much,  very  much  indeed,"  re 
plied  Mercy.  "  But  I  really  cannot  think  of  taking  it, 
unless  you  let  us  pay  for  it." 

The  old  man  sprung  to  his  feet  with  such  impatience 
that  the  leather  bale  rolled  away  from  him,  and  he 
nearly  lost  his  balance.  Mercy  sprang  forward  and 
caught  him. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Bless  my  soul !  Don't  pester  me, 
child !  Don't  you  see  I  'm  an  old  man  ?  I  tell  ye  I  '11  give 
ye  the  clock,  an '  I  won't  sell  it  ter  ye, — won't,  won't, 
won't,"  and  he  picked  up  his  cane,  and  stood  leaning 
upon  it  with  both  his  hands  clasped  on  it,  and  his  head 
bent  forward,  eagerly  scanning  Mercy's  face.  She  hesi 
tated  still,  and  began  to  speak  again. 

"But,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  — 

"Don't  'but'  me.  There  ain't  any  buts  about  it. 
There  's  the  clock.  Take  it,  child,  —  take  it,  take  it,  take 
it,  or  else  leave  it,  just 's  you  like.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
saddle  ye  with  it ;  but  I  think  ye  'd  be  very  silly  not  to 
take  it  — silly,  silly." 

Mercy  began  to  think  so  too.  The  clock  was  its  own 
advocate,  almost  as  strong  as  the  old  man's  pleading. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  she  said.  "I  will  take 
the  clock,  though  I  don't  know  what  my  mother  will  say. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  11$ 

It  is  a  most  valuable  present.  I  hope  we  can  do  some 
thing  for  you  some  day." 

"Tut,  tut,  tut !  "  growled  the  old  man.  "Just  like  all 
the  rest  o'  the  world.  Got  no  faith,  —  can't  believe  in  get- 
tin'  somethin'  for  nothin'.  You  're  right,  child,  —  right, 
right.  'S  a  general  thing,  people  are  cheats,  cheats, 
cheats.  Get  all  your  money  away,  —  wolves,  wolves, 
wolves  !  Stay  here,  child,  a  minute.  I  '11  get  two  men 
to  carry  it."  And,  before  Mercy  realized  his  intention,  he 
had  shut  the  door,  locked  it,  and  left  her  alone  in  the 
warehouse.  Her  first  sensation  was  of  sharp  terror ;  but 
she  ran  to  the  one  window  which  was  accessible,  and, 
seeing  that  it  looked  out  on  the  busiest  thoroughfare 
of  the  town,  she  sat  down  by  it  to  await  the  old  man's 
return.  In  a  very  few  moments,  she  heard  the  sounds  of 
steps  on  the  stairs,  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
old  man,  still  talking  to  himself  in  muttered  tones, 
pushed  into  the  room  two  ragged  vagabonds  whom  he 
had  picked  up  on  the  street. 

They  looked  as  astonished  at  the  nature  of  the  place 
as  Mercy  had.  With  gaping  mouths  and  roving  eyes, 
they  halted  on  the  threshold. 

"  Come  in,  come  in  !  What  're  ye  'bout  ?  Earn 
yer  money,  earn  yer  money  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  the  clock,  and  bidding  them  take  it  up  and 
carry  it  out. 

"  Now  mind !  Quarter  a  piece,  quarter  a  piece, — not 
a  cent  more.  Do  ye  understand  ?  Hark  'e  !  do  ye  un 
derstand  ?  Not  a  cent  more,"  he  said,  following  them  ouf 
of  the  door.  Then  turning  to  Mercy,  he  exclaimed,  — 


116  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Bless  my  soul !  Forgot  you,  child. 
Come  on,  come  on  !  I  '11  go  with  you,  else  those  ras 
cals  will  cheat  you.  Men  are  wolves,  wolves,  wolves. 
They  're  to  carry  the  clock  up  to  your  house  for  a  quar 
ter  apiece.  But  I  '11  come  on  with  you.  Got  half  a 
dollar  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,"  laughed  Mercy,  much  pleased  that  the  old 
man  was  willing  she  should  pay  the  porters.  "  Oh,  yes, 
I  have  my  portemonnaie  here,"  holding  it  up.  "  This 
is  the  cheapest  clock  ever  sold,  I  think ;  and  you  are 
very  good  to  let  me  pay  the  men." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  with  a  keen,  suspicious 
glance. 

"  Good  ?  eh !  good  ?  Why,  ye  didn't  think  I  was  goin' 
to  give  ye  money,  did  ye  ?  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  Not  money. 
Never  give  money." 

This  was  very  true.  It  would  probably  have  cost 
him  a  severer  pang  to  give  away  fifty  cents  than  to 
have  parted  with  the  entire  contents  of  the  storehouse. 
Mercy  laughed  aloud. 

"Why,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  she  said,  "you  have  given  me 
just  the  same  as  money.  Such  a  clock  as  this  must  have 
cost  a  good  deal,  I  am  sure." 

"  No,  no,  child  !  It 's  very  different,  different.  Clock 
wasn't  any  use  to  me,  wasn't  wuth  any  thin'.  Money  's 
of  use,  use,  use.  Can't  have  enough  on  't.  People  get 
it  all  away  from  you.  They  're  wolves,  wolves,  wolves," 
replied  the  old  man,  running  along  in  advance  of  Mercy, 
and  rapping  one  of  the  men  who  were  carrying  the 
clock,  sharp.y  on  his  shoulder. 


MERCY  PHlLBRICfCS   CHOICE.  1 17 

"  Keep  your  end  up  there  !  keep  it  up  !  I  won't  pay 
you,  if  you  don't  carry  your  half,"  he  exclaimed. 

It  was  a  droll  procession,  and  everybody  turned  to 
look  at  it :  the  two  ragged  men  carrying  the  quaint- 
fashioned  old  clock,  from  which  the  dust  shook  off  at 
every  jolt,  revealing  the  carved  scrolls  and  figures  upon 
it :  following  them,  Mercy,  with  her  expressive  face  full 
of  mirth  and  excitement ;  and  the  old  man,  now  ahead, 
now  lagging  behind,  now  talking  in  an  eager  and  ani 
mated  manner  with  Mercy,  now  breaking  off  to  admon 
ish  or  chastise  the  bearers  of  the  clock.  The  eccentric 
old  fellow  used  his  cane  as  freely  as  if  it  had  been  a 
hand.  There  were  few  boys  in  town  who  had  not  felt 
its  weight ;  and  his  more  familiar  acquaintances  knew 
the  touch  of  it  far  better  than  they  knew  the  grip  of  his 
fingers.  It  "  saved  steps,"  he  used  to  say ;  though  of 
steps  the  old  man  seemed  any  thing  but  chary,  as  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  taking  them  perpetually,  without 
advancing  or  retreating,  changing  from  one  foot  to  the 
other,  as  uneasily  as  a  goose  does. 

Stephen  White  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  the 
window,  when  this  unique  procession  of  the  clock  passed 
his  office.  He  could  not  believe  what  he  saw.  He 
threw  up  the  window  and  leaned  out,  to  assure  himself 
that  he  was  not  mistaken.  Mercy  heard  the  sound, 
looked  up,  and  met  Stephen's  eye.  She  colored  vio 
lently,  bowed,  and  involuntarily  quickened  her  pace. 
Her  companion  halted,  and  looked  up  to  see  what  had 
arrested  her  attention.  When  he  saw  Stephen's  face,  he 
said,  — 


Il8  MERCY  PUILBRICK'S    LllOICE. 

"  Pshaw !  "  and  turned  again  to  look  at  Mercy.  The 
bright  color  had  not  yet  left  her  cheek.  The  old  man 
gazed  at  her  angrily  for  a  moment,  then  stopped  short, 
planted  his  cane  on  the  ground,  and  said  in  a  loud 
tone,  all  the  while  peering  into  her  face  as  if  he  would 
read  her  very  thoughts,  — 

"  Don't  you  know  that  Steve  White  isn't  good  for  any 
thin'  ?  Poor  stock,  poor  stock  !  Father  before  him  poor 
stock,  too.  Don't  you  go  to  lettin'  him  handle  your 
money,  child.  Mind  now !  I  '11  be  a  good  friend  to  you, 
if  you  '11  do  's  I  say ;  but,  if  Steve  White  gets  hold 
on  you,  I  '11  have  nothin'  to  do  with  you.  Mind  that, 
eh  ?  eh  ? " 

Mercy  had  a  swift  sense  of  angry  resentment  at  these 
words ;  but  she  repelled  it,  as  she  would  have  resisted 
the  impulse  to  be  angry  with  a  little  child. 

"  Mr.  Wheeler,"  she  said  with  a  gentle  dignity  of  tone, 
which  was  not  thrown  away  on  the  old  man,  "  I  do  not 
know  why  you  should  speak  so  to  me  about  Mr.  White. 
He  is  almost  an  entire  stranger  to  me  as  yet.  We  live 
in  his  house ;  but  we  do  not  know  him  or  his  mother  yet, 
except  in  the  most  formal  way.  He  seems  to  be  a  very 
agreeable  man,"  she  added  with  a  little  tinge  of  per 
versity. 

"  Hm !  hm ! "  was  all  the  old  man's  reply ;  and  he 
did  not  speak  again  till  they  reached  Mercy's  gate. 
Here  the  clock-carriers  were  about  to  set  their  burden 
down.  Mr.  Wheeler  ran  towards  them  with  his  cane 
outstretched. 

"  Here !  here !  you  lazy  rascals  !  Into  the  house  I 
intc  the  house,  else  you  don't  get  any  quarter  1 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


"Well  I  came  along,  child,  —  well  I  came  along. 
They  'd  ha'  left  it  right  out  doors  here.  Cheats  !  Peo 
ple  are  all  cheats,  cheats,  cheats,"  he  exclaimed. 

Into  the  house,  without  a  pause,  without  a  knock,  into 
poor  bewildered  Mrs.  Carr's  presence  he  strode,  the 
men  following  fast  on  his  steps,  and  Mercy  unable  to 
pass  them. 

"  Where  '11  you  have  it  ?  Where  '11  you  have  it,  child  .' 
Bless  my  soul  !  where  's  that  girl  !  "  he  exclaimed,  look 
ing  back  at  Mercy,  who  stood  on  the  front  doorstep, 
vainly  trying  to  hurry  in  to  explain  the  strange  scene  to 
her  mother.  Mrs.  Carr  was,  as  usual,  knitting.  She  rose 
up  suddenly,  confused  at  the  strange  apparitions  before 
her,  and  let  her  knitting  fall  on  the  floor.  The  ball 
rolled  swiftly  towards  Mr.  Wheeler,  and  tangled  the  yarn 
around  his  feet.  He  jumped  up  and  down,  all  the 
while  brandishing  his  cane,  and  muttering,  "Pshaw! 
pshaw  !  Damn  knitting  !  Always  did  hate  the  sight  on  't." 
But,  kicking  out  to  the  right  and  the  left  vigorously,  he 
soon  snapped  the  yarn,  and  stood  free. 

"  Mother  !  mother  !  "  called  Mercy  from  behind, 
"this  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of,  —  Mr.  Wheeler. 
He  has  very  kindly  given  us  this  beautiful  clock,  almost 
exactly  like  ours." 

The  sound  of  Mercy's  voice  reassured  the  poor  be 
wildered  old  woman,  and,  dropping  her  old-fashioned 
courtesy,  she  said  timidly,  — 

"  Pleased  to  see  you,  sir.     Pray  take  a  chair." 

"Chair?  chair?  No,  no!  Never  do  sit  down  in 
houses,  —  never,  never.  Where  '11  you  have  it,  mum  ? 
Where  '11  you  have  it? 


120  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  Don't  you  dare  put  that  down  !  Wait  till  you  are 
told  to,  you  lazy  rascals  !  "  he  exclaimed,  lifting  his  cane, 
and  threatening  the  men  who  were  on  the  point  of  set 
ting  the  clock  down,  very  naturally  thinking  they  might 
Lf.  permitted  at  last  to  rest  a  moment. 

'•'  Oh,  Mr.  Wheeler ! "  said  Mercy,  "  let  them  put  it 
down  anywhere,  please,  for  the  present.  I  never  can 
tell  at  first  where  I  want  a  thing  to  stand.  I  shall  have 
to  try  it  in  different  corners  before  I  am  sure,"  and 
Mercy  took  out  her  portemonnaie,  and  came  forward  to 
pay  the  bearers.  As  she  opened  it,  the  old  man  stepped 
nearer  to  her,  and  peered  curiously  into  her  hand.  The 
money  in  the  portemonnaie  was  neatly  folded  and  as 
sorted,  each  kind  by  itself,  in  a  separate  compartment. 
The  old  man  nodded,  and  muttered  to  himself,  "Fine 
young  woman !  fine  young  woman !  Business,  busi 
ness  !  —  Who  taught  you,  child,  to  sort  your  money  that 
way  ?  "  he  suddenly  asked. 

"  Why,  no  one  taught  me,"  replied  Mercy.  "  I  found 
that  it  saved  time  not  to  have  to  fumble  all  through  a 
portemonnaie  for  a  ten-cent  piece.  It  looks  neater,  too, 
than  to  have  it  all  in  a  crumpled  mass,"  she  added, 
smiling  and  looking  up  in  the  old  man's  face.  "  I  don't 
like  disorder.  Such  a  place  as  your  store-room  would 
drive  me  crazy." 

The  old  man  was  not  listening.  He  was  looking 
about  the  room  with  a  dissatisfied  expression  of  counte 
nance.  In  a  few  moments,  he  said  abruptly,  — 

"  'S  this  all  the  furniture  you  've  got  ? " 

Mrs.  Carr  colored,  and  looked  appealingly  at  Mercy ; 


MERCY  PHILBlilCK'S   CHOICE.  12} 

but  Mercy  laughed,  and  replied  as  she  would  have  an 
swered  her  own  grandfather,  — 

"  Oh,  no,  not  all  we  have  1  We  have  five  more  rooms 
fuinished.  It  is  all  we  have  for  this  room,  however. 
These  rooms  are  all  larger  than  our  rooms  were  at 
home,  and  so  the  things  look  scanty.  But  I  shall  get 
more  by  degrees." 

"  Hm  !  hm  !  Want  any  thing  out  o'  my  lumber-room  ? 
Have  it 's  well  's  not.  Things  no  good  to  anybody." 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Mr.  Wheeler.  We  have  all  we 
need.  I  could  not  think  of  taking  any  thing  more  from 
you.  We  are  under  great  obligation  to  you  now  for  the 
clock,"  said  Mercy;  and  Mrs.  Carr  bewilderedly  ejacu 
lated,  "  Oh,  no,  sir,  —  no,  sir  1  There  isn't  any  call  for 
you  to  give  us  any  thin'." 

.  While  they  were  speaking,  the  old  man  was  rapidly 
going  out  of  the  house ;  with  quick,  short  steps  like  a 
child,  and  tapping  his  cane  on  the  floor  at  every  step. 
In  the  doorway  he  halted  a  moment,  and,  without  look 
ing  back,  said,  "Well,  well,  let  me  know,  if  you  do 
want  any  thing.  Have  it  's  well  's  not,"  and  he  was 
gone. 

"  Oh,  Mercy !  he  's  crazy,  sure  's  you  're  alive.  You  '11 
get  took  up  for  hevin'  this  clock.  Whatever  made  you 
take  it,  child  ? "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Carr,  walking  round 
and  round  the  clock,  and  dusting  it  here  and  there  with 
a  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  Well,  mother,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.     I  couldn't 
seem  to  help  it :  he  was  so  determined,  and  the  clock 
was  such  a  beauty.     I  don't  think  he  is  crazy.     I  think 
6 


122  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


he  is  simply  very  queer ;  and  he  is  ever,  ever  so  rich. 
The  clock  isn't  really  of  any  value  to  him ;  that  is,  he  'd 
never  do  any  thing  with  it.  He  has  a  huge  room  half 
as  big  as  this  house,  just  crammed  with  things,  all  sorts 
of  things,  that  he  took  for  debts ;  and  this  clock  was 
among  them.  I  think  it  gave  the  old  man  a  real  pleasure 
to  have  me  take  it;  so  that  is  one  more  reason  for 
doing  it." 

"Well,  you  know  best,  Mercy,"  said  Mrs.  Carr,  a 
little  sadly ;  "  but  I  can't  quite  see  it 's  you  do.  It  seems 
to  me  amazin'  like  a  charity.  I  wish  he  hadn't  never 
found  you  out." 

"I  don't,  mother.  I  believe  he  is  going  to  be  my 
best  crony  here,"  said  Mercy,  laughing;  "and  I  'm  sure 
nobody  can  say  any  thing  ill-natured  about  such  a  crony 
as  he  would  be.  He  must  be  seventy  years  old,  at 
least." 

When  Stephen  came  home  that  night,  he  received 
from  his  mother  a  most  graphic  account  of  the  arrival 
of  the  clock.  She  had  watched  the  procession  from  her 
window,  and  had  heard  the  confused  sounds  of  talking 
and  moving  of  furniture  in  the  house  afterward.  Marty 
also  had  supplied  some  details,  she  having  been  surrep 
titiously  overlooking  the  whole  affair. 

"  I  must  say,"  remarked  Mrs.  White,  "  that  it  looks 
very  queer.  Where  did  she  pick  up  Old  Man  Wheeler  ? 
Who  ever  heard  of  his  being  seen  walking  with  a  woman 
before  ?  Ever,  as  a  young  man,  he  never  would  have 
any  thing  to  do  with  them ;  and  it  was  always  a  marvel 
how  he  got  married.  I  used  to  know  him  very  well." 


MERCY  PEILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  123 

"  But,  mother,"  urged  Stephen,  "  for  all  we  know, 
they  may  be  relations  or  old  friends  of  his.  You  forget 
that  we  know  literally  nothing  about  these  people.  So 
far  from  being  queer,  it  may  be  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  that  he  should  be  helping  her  fit  up  her 
house." 

But  in  his  heart  Stephen  thought,  as  his  mother  did, 
that  it  was  very  queer. 


124  MERCY  PHILB RICK'S  CHOICE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

*  I  "'HE  beautiful  white  New  England  winter  had  set  in. 
*•*•  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  nothing  but  white 
could  be  seen.  The  boundary  lines  of  stone  walls  and 
fences  were  gone,  or  were  indicated  only  by  raised  and 
rounded  lines  of  the  same  soft  white.  On  one  side  of 
these  were  faintly  pencilled  dark  shadows  in  the  morn 
ing  and  in  the  afternoon ;  but  at  high  noon  the  fields 
were  as  unbroken  a  white  as  ever  Arctic  explorer  saw, 
and  the  roads  shone  in  the  sun  like  white  satin  ribbons 
flung  out  in  all  directions.  The  groves  of  maple  and 
hickory  and  beech  were  bare.  Their  delicate  gray  tints 
spread  in  masses  over  the  hillsides  like  a  transparent, 
gray  veil,  through  which  every  outline  of  the  hills  was 
clear,  but  softened.  The  massive  pines  and  spruces 
looked  almost  black  against  the  white  of  the  snow,  and 
the  whole  landscape  was  at  once  shining  and  sombre ;  an 
effect  which  is  peculiar  to  the  New  England  winter  in 
the  hill  country,  and  is  always  either  very  depressing  or 
very  stimulating  to  the  soul.  Dreamy  and  inert  and 
phlegmatic  people  shiver  and  huddle,  see  only  the  som- 
breness,  and  find  the  winter  one  long  imprisonment  in 
the  dark.  But  to  a  joyous,  brisk,  sanguine  soul,  the 
clear,  crisp,  cold  air  is  like  wine ;  and  the  whiteness  and 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  12$ 

sparkle  and  shine  of  the  snow  are  like  martial  music,  a 
constant  excitement  and  spell. 

Mercy's  soul  thrilled  within  her  with  new  delight  and 
impulse  each  day.  The  winter  had  always  oppressed 
her  before.  On  the  seashore,  winter  means  raw  cold, 
a  pale,  gray,  angry  ocean,  fierce  winds,  and  scanty  wet 
snows.  This  brilliant,  frosty  air,  so  still  and  dry  that  it 
never  seemed  cold,  this  luxuriance  of  snow  piled  soft  and 
high  as  if  it  meant  shelter  and  warmth,  —  as  indeed  it 
does,  —  were  very  wonderful  to  Mercy.  She  would  have 
liked  to  be  out  of  doors  all  day  long :  it  seemed  to  her 
a  fairer  than  summer-time.  She  followed  the  partially 
broken  trails  of  the  wood-cutters  far  into  the  depths  of 
the  forests,  and  found  there  on  sunny  days,  in  sheltered 
spots,  where  the  feet  of  the  men  and  horses  and  the 
runners  of  the  heavy  sledges  had  worn  away  the  snow, 
green  mosses  and  glossy  ferns  and  shining  clumps  of 
the  hepatica.  It  was  a  startling  sight  on  a  December 
day,  when  the  snow  was  lying  many  inches  deep,  to  come 
suddenly  on  Mercy  walking  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
her  hands  filled  with  green  ferns  and  mosses  and  vines. 
There  were  three  different  species  of  ground-pine  in 
these  woods,  and  hepatica  and  pyrola  and  winter-green, 
and  thickets  of  laurel.  What  wealth  for  a  lover  of  wild, 
out-door  things  !  Each  day  Mercy  bore  home  new  treas 
ures,  until  the  house  was  almost  as  green  and  fragrant 
as  a  summer  wood.  Day  after  day,  Mrs.  White,  from 
her  point  of  observation  at  her  window,  watched  the  lithe 
young  figure  coming  down  the  road,  bearing  her  sheaves 
of  boughs  and  vines,  sometimes  on  her  shoulder,  asi 


126  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

lightly  and  gracefully  as  a  peasant  girl  of  Italy  might 
bear  her  poised  basket  of  grapes.  Gradually  a  deep 
wonder  took  possession  of  the  lonely  old  woman's  soul. 

"  Whatever  can  she  do  with  all  that  green  stuff  ? "  she 
thought  "  She  's  carried  in  enough  to  trim  the  Tisco- 
pal  church  twice  over." 

At  last  she  shared  her  perplexity  with  Marty. 

"Marty,"  said  she  one  day,  "have  you  ever  seen 
Mrs.  Philbrick  come  into  the  house  without  somethin' 
green  in  her  hands  ?  What  do  you  suppose  she  's  goin' 
to  do  with  it  all  ? " 

"  Lord  knows,"  answered  Marty.  "  I  Ve  been  a 
speckkerlatin'  about  that  very  thing  myself.  They  can't 
be  a  brewin'  beer  this  time  o'  year ;  but  I  see  her  yes 
terday  with  her  hands  full  o'  pyroly." 

"  I  wish  you  would  make  an  errand  in  there,  Marty," 
said  Mrs.  White,  "  and  see  if  you  can  any  way  find  out 
what  it 's  all  for.  She  's  carried  in  pretty  near  a  grove  of 
pine-trees,  I  should  say." 

The  willing  Marty  went,  and  returned  with  a  most  sur 
prising  tale.  Every  room  was  wreathed  with  green  vines. 
There  were  evergreen  trees  in  boxes ;  the  window-seats 
were  filled  with  pots  of  green  things  growing;  waving 
masses  of  ferns  hung  down  from  brackets  on  the  walls. 

"  I  jest  stood  like  a  dumb  critter  the  minnit  I  got  in," 
said  Marty.  "  I  didn't  know  whether  I  wuz  in  the  house 
or  out  in  the  woods,  the  whole  place  smelled  o'  hemlock 
so,  an'  looked  so  kind  o'  sunny  and  shady  all  ter  oncet. — 
I  jest  wished  Steve  could  see  it.  He  'd  go  wild/''  added 
the  unconsciously  injudicious  Marty. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  I2/ 

Mrs.  White's  face  darkened  instantly. 

"  It  must  be  very  unwholesome  to  have  rooms  made 
so  dark  and  damp,"  she  said.  "  I  should  think  people 
might  have  more  sense." 

"  Oh,  it  wa'n't  dark  a  mite ! "  interrupted  Marty, 
eagerly.  "  There  wuz  a  blazin'  fire  on  the  hearth  in  the 
settin'-room,  an'  the  sun  a-streamin'  into  both  the  south 
winders.  It  made  shadders  on  the  floor,  jest  as  it  does 
in  the  woods.  I  'd  jest  ha'  liked  to  set  down  there  a 
spell,  and  not  do  nothin'  but  watch  'em." 

At  this  moment,  a  low  knock  at  the  door  interrupted 
the  conversation.  Marty  opened  the  door,  and  there 
stood  Mercy  herself,  holding  in  her  hands  some  wreaths 
of  laurel  and  pine,  and  a  large  earthen  dish  with  ferns 
growing  in  it.  It  was  the  day  before  Christmas;  and 
Mercy  had  been  busy  all  day,  putting  up  the  Christmas 
decorations  in  her  rooms.  As  she  hung  cross  after 
cross,  and  wreath  after  wreath,  she  thought  of  the  poor, 
lonely,  and  peevish  old  woman  she  had  seen  there  weeks 
before,  and  wondered  if  she  would  have  any  Christmas 
evergreens  to  brighten  her  room. 

"I  don't  suppose  a  man  would  ever  think  of  such 
things,"  thought  Mercy.  "  I  've  a  great  mind  to  carry 
her  in  some.  I  '11  never  muster  courage  to  go  in  there, 
unless  I  go  to  carry  her  something ;  and  I  may  as  well 
do  it  first  as  last.  Perhaps  she  doesn't  care  any  thing 
about  things  from  the  woods ;  but  I  think  they  may  do 
her  good  without  her  knowing  it.  Besides,  I  promised  to 
go."  It  was  now  ten  days  since  Stephen,  meeting  Mercy 
in  the  town  one  day,  had  stopped,  and  said  to  her,  in  a 
half-sad  tone  which  had  touched  her.  — 


128  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  Do  you  really  never  mean  to  come  again  to  see  my 
mother  ?  I  do  assure  you  it  would  be  a  great  kindness." 

His  tone  conveyed  a  great  deal,  —  his  tone  and  his 
eyes.  They  said  as  plainly  as  words  could  have  said,  — 

"  I  know  that  my  mother  treated  you  abominably,  I 
know  she  is  very  disagreeable ;  but,  after  all,  she  is  help 
less  and  alone,  and  if  you  could  only  once  get  her  to 
like  you,  and  would  come  and  see  her  now  and  then,  it 
would  be  a  kindness  to  her,  and  a  great  help  to  me ; 
and  I  do  yearn  to  know  you  better ;  and  I  never  can, 
unless  you  will  begin  the  acquaintance  by  being  on  good 
terms  with  my  mother." 

All  this  Stephen's  voice  and  eyes  had  said  to  Mercy's 
eyes  and  heart,  while  his  lips  pronounced  the  few  com 
monplace  words  which  were  addressed  to  her  ear.  All 
this  Mercy  was  revolving  in  her  thoughts,  as  she  deftly 
and  with  almost  a  magic  touch  laid  the  soft  mosses  in 
the  earthen  dish,  and  planted  them  thick  with  ferns 
and  hepatica  and  partridge-berry  vines  and  winter- 
green.  But  all  she  was  conscious  of  saying  to  herself 
was,  "  Mr.  White  asked  me  to  go ;  and  it  really  is  not 
civil  not  to  do  it,  and  I  may  as  well  have  it  over  with." 

When  Mrs.  White's  eyes  first  fell  on  Mercy  in  the 
doorway,  they  rested  on  her  with  the  same  cold  gaze 
which  had  so  repelled  her  on  their  first  interview.  But 
no  sooner  did  she  see  the  dish  of  mosses  than  her  face 
lighted  up,  and  exclaiming,  "Oh,  where  did  you  get 
those  partridge-berry  vines  ? "  she  involuntarily  stretched 
out  her  hands.  The  ice  was  broken.  Mercy  felt  at 
home  at  once,  and  at  once  conceived  a  true  sentiment 


MERCY  PHILB RICK'S   CHOICE.  12$ 

of  pity  for  Mrs.  White,  which  never  wholly  died  out  of 
her  heart.  Kneeling  on  the  floor  by  her  bed,  she  said 
eagerly,  — 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  like  them,  Mrs.  White.  Let  me 
hold  them  down  low,  where  you  can  look  at  them." 

Some  subtle  spell  must  have  linked  itself  in  Mrs. 
White's  brain  with  the  dainty  red  partridge  berries. 
Her  eyes  rilled  with  tears,  as  she  lifted  the  vines  gently 
in  her  fingers,  and  looked  at  them.  Mercy  watched  her 
with  great  surprise ;  but  with  the  quick  instinct  of  a 
poet's  temperament  she  thought,  "  She  hasn't  seen 
them  very  likely  since  she  was  a  little  girl." 

"  Did  you  use  to  like  them  when  you  were  a  child, 
Mrs.  White  ? "  she  asked. 

"I  used  to  pick  them  when  I  was  young,"  replied 
Mrs.  White,  dreamily,  —  "  when  I  was  young :  not  when 
I  was  a  child,  though.  May  I  have  one  of  them  to 
keep  ? "  she  asked  presently,  still  holding  an  end  of  one 
of  the  vines  in  her  fingers. 

"  Oh,  I  brought  them  in  for  you,  for  Christmas,"  ex 
claimed  Mercy.  "  They  are  all  for  you." 

Mrs.  White  was  genuinely  astonished.  No  one  had 
ever  done  this  kind  of  thing  for  her  before.  Stephen 
always  gave  her  on  her  birthday  and  on  Christmas  a 
dutiful  and  somewhat  appropriate  gift,  though  very 
sorely  he  was  often  puzzled  to  select  a  thing  which 
should  not  jar  either  on  his  own  taste  or  his  mother's 
sense  of  utility.  But  a  gift  of  this  kind,  a  simple  little 
tribute  to  her  supposed  womanly  love  of  the  beautiful, 
a  thoughtful  arrangement  to  give  her  something  pleasant 
6*  i 


130  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

to  look  upon  for  a  time,  no  one  had  ever  before  macK 
It  gave  her  an  emotion  of  real  gratitude,  such  as  she  had 
seldom  felt. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  indeed,  —  very,"  she  said  with  em 
phasis,  and  in  a  gentler  tone  than  Mercy  had  before 
heard  from  her  lips.  "  I  shall  have  a  great  deal  of  com 
fort  out  of  it." 

Then  Mercy  set  the  dish  on  a  small  table,  and  hung 
up  the  wreaths  in  the  windows.  As  she  moved  about 
the  room  lightly,  now  and  then  speaking  in  her  gay, 
light-hearted  voice,  Mrs.  White  thought  to  herself,  — 

"  Steve  was  right.  She  is  a  wonderful  cheery  body." 
And,  long  after  Mercy  had  gone,  she  continued  to  think 
happily  of  the  pleasant  incident  of  the  fresh,  bright  face 
and  the  sweet  voice.  For  the  time  being,  her  jealous 
distrust  of  the  possible  effect  of  these  upon  her  son 
slumbered. 

When  Stephen  entered  his  mother's  room  that  night, 
his  heart  gave  a  sudden  bound  at  the  sight  of  the  green 
wreaths  and  the  dish  of  ferns.  He  saw  them  on  the 
first  instant  after  opening  the  door;  he  knew  in  the 
same  instant  that  the  hands  of  Mercy  Philbrick  must 
have  placed  them  there ;  but,  also,  in  that  same  brief 
instant  came  to  him  an  involuntary  impulse  to  pretend 
that  he  did  not  observe  them ;  to  wait  till  his  mother 
should  have  spoken  of  them  first,  that  he  might  know 
whether  she  were  pleased  or  not  by  the  gift.  So  infi 
nitely  small  are  the  first  beginnings  of  the  course  of 
deceit  into  which  tyranny  always  drives  its  victim.  It 
could  not  be  called  a  deceit,  the  simple  forbearing  to 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  13* 

speak  of  a  new  object  which  one  observed  in  a  room. 
No ;  but  the  motive  made  it  a  sure  seed  of  a  deceit :  for 
when  Mrs.  White  said,  "Why,  Stephen,  you  haven't 
noticed  the  greens !  Look  in  the  windows ! "  his  ex 
clamation  of  apparent  surprise,  "Why,  how  lovely  I 
Where  did  they  come  from?"  was  a  lie.  It  did  not 
seem  so,  however,  to  Stephen.  It  seemed  to  him  simply 
a  politic  suppression  of  a  truth,  to  save  his  mother's 
feelings,  to  avoid  a  possibility  of  a  war  of  words.  Mercy 
Philbrick,  under  the  same  circumstances,  would  have 
replied,  — 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  saw  them  as  soon  as  I  came  in.  I  was 
waiting  for  you  to  tell  me  about  them,"  and  even  then 
would  have  been  tortured  by  her  conscience,  because  she 
did  not  say  why  she  was  waiting. 

While  his  mother  was  telling  him  of  Mercy's  call,  and 
of  the  report  Marty  had  brought  back  of  the  decorations 
of  the  rooms,  Stephen  stood  with  his  face  bent  over 
the  ferns,  apparently  absorbed  in  studying  each  leaf 
minutely;  then  he  walked  to  the  windows  and  exam 
ined  the  wreaths.  He  felt  himself  so  suddenly  glad 
dened  by  these  tokens  of  Mercy's  presence,  and  by  his 
mother's  evident  change  of  feeling  towards  her,  that  he 
feared  his  face  would  betray  too  much  pleasure ;  he 
feared  to  speak,  lest  his  voice  should  do  the  same  thing. 
He  was  forced  to  make  a  great  effort  to  speak  in  a  judi 
ciously  indifferent  tone,  as  he  said,  — 

"  Indeed,  they  are  very  pretty.  I  never  saw  mosses 
so  beautifully  arranged ;  and  it  was  so  thoughtful  of  her 
to  bring  them  in  for  you  for  Christmas  Eve.  I  wish  we 
had  something  to  send  in  to  them,  don't  you  ? " 


132  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

"Well,  I've  been  thinking,"  said  his  mother,  "that 
we  might  ask  them  to  come  in  and  take  dinner  with  us 
to-morrow.  Marty  's  made  some  capital  mince-pies,  and 
is  going  to  roast  a  turkey.  I  don't  believe  they  '11  be 
goin'  to  have  any  thing  better,  do  you,  Stephen  ?  " 

Stephen  walked  very  suddenly  to  the  fire,  and  made 
a  feint  of  rearranging  it,  that  he  might  turn  his  face 
entirely  away  from  his  mother's  sight.  He  was  almost 
dumb  with  astonishment.  A  certain  fear  mingled  with 
it.  What  meant  this  sudden  change  ?  Did  it  portend 
good  or  evil  ?  It  seemed  too  sudden,  too  inexplicable, 
to  be  genuine.  Stephen  had  yet  to  learn  the  magic 
power  which  Mercy  Philbrick  had  to  compel  the  liking 
even  of  people  who  did  not  choose  to  like  her. 

"Why,  yes,  mother,"  he  said,  "that  would  be  very 
nice.  It  is  a  long  time  since  we  had  anybody  to  Christ 
mas  dinner." 

"  Well,  suppose  you  run  in  after  tea  and  ask  them," 
replied  Mrs.  White,  in  the  friendliest  of  tones. 

"  Yes,  I  '11  go,"  answered  Stephen,  feeling  as  if  he 
were  a  man  talking  in  a  dream.  "  I  have  been  meaning 
to  go  in  ever  since  they  came." 

After  tea,  Stephen  sat  counting  the  minutes  till  he 
should  go.  To  all  appearances,  he  was  buried  in  his 
newspaper,  occasionally  reading  a  paragraph  aloud  to 
his  mother.  He  thought  it  better  that  she  should  re 
mind  him  of  his  intention  to  go  ;  that  the  call  should  be 
purely  at  her  suggestion.  The  patience  and  silence  with 
which  he  sat  waiting  for  her  to  remember  and  speak  of 
it  were  the  very  essence  of  deceit  again,  —  twice  in  this 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  133 

one  hour  an  acted  lie,  of  which  his  dulled  conscience 
took  no  note  or  heed.  Fine  and  impalpable  as  the 
meshes  of  the  spider's-web  are  the  bands  and  bonds  of 
a  habit  of  concealment ;  swift-growing,  too,  and  in  ever- 
widening  circles,  like  the  same  glittering  net  woven  for 
death. 

At  last  Mrs.  White  said,  "  Steve,  I  think  it 's  getting 
near  nine  o'clock.  You  'd  better  go  in  next  door  before 
it 's  any  later." 

Stephen  pulled  out  his  watch.  By  his  own  sensations, 
he  would  have  said  that  it  must  be  midnight. 

"  Yes,  it  is  half -past  eight.  I  suppose  I  had  better 
go  now,"  he  said,  and  bade  his  mother  good-night. 

He  went  out  into  the  night  with  a  sense  of  ecstasy  of 
relief  and  joy.  He  was  bewildered  at  himself.  How 
this  strong  sentiment  towards  Mercy  Philbrick  had 
taken  possession  of  him  he  could  not  tell.  He  walked 
up  and  down  in  the  snowy  path  in  front  of  the  house 
for  some  minutes,  questioning  himself,  sounding  with  a 
delicious  dread  the  depths  of  this  strange  sea  in  which 
he  suddenly  found  himself  drifting.  He  went  back  to 
the  day  when  Harley  Allen's  letter  first  told  him  of  the 
two  women  who  might  become  his  tenants.  He  felt 
then  a  presentiment  that  a  new  element  was  to  be  intro 
duced  into  his  life ;  a  vague,  prophetic  sense  of  some 
change  at  hand.  Then  came  the  first  interview,  and  his 
sudden  disappointment,  which  he  now  blushed  to  recol 
lect.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  some  magician  must  have 
laid  a  spell  upon  his  eyes,  that  he  did  not  see  even  in 
that  darkness  how  lovely  a  face  Mercy  had,  did  not  fee! 


134  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

even  through  all  the  embarrassment  and  strangeness  the 
fascination  of  her  personal  presence.  Then  he  dwelt  lin- 
geringly  on  the  picture,  which  had  never  faded  from  his 
brain,  of  his  next  sight  of  her,  as  she  sat  on  the  old 
stone  wall,  with  the  gay  maple-leaves  and  blackberry- 
vines  in  her  lap.  From  that  day  to  the  present,  he  had 
seen  her  only  a  half  dozen  times,  and  only  for  a  chance 
greeting  as  they  had  passed  each  other  in  the  street ; 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  never  been  really 
absent  from  him,  so  conscious  was  he  of  her  all  the 
time.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  these  thoughts  that  a 
half-hour  was  gone  before  he  realized  it,  and  the  village 
bells  were  ringing  for  nine  o'  clock  when  he  knocked 
on  the  door  of  the  wing. 

Mrs.  Carr  had  rolled  up  her  knitting,  and  was  just  on 
the  point  of  going  upstairs.  Their  little  maid  of  all 
work  had  already  gone  to  bed,  when  Stephen's  loud 
knock  startled  them  all. 

"  Gracious  alive  !  Mercy,  what 's  that  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Carr,  all  sorts  of  formless  terrors  springing  upon 
her  at  once.  Mercy  herself  was  astonished,  and  ran 
hastily  to  open  the  door.  When  she  saw  Stephen  stand 
ing  there,  her  astonishment  was  increased,  and  she 
looked  it  so  undisguisedly  that  he  said,  — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Philbrick.  I  know  it  is 
late,  but  my  mother  sent  me  in  with  a  message."  .  .  . 

"  Pray  come  in,  Mr.  White,"  interrupted  Mercy.  "  It 
is  not  really  late,  only  we  keep  such  absurdly  early 
hours,  and  are  so  quiet,  as  we  know  nobody  here,  that  a 
knock  at  the  door  in  the  evening  makes  us  all  jump. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  1 35 

Pray  come  in,"  and  she  threw  open  the  door  into  the 
sitting-room,  where  the  lamps  had  already  been  put  out, 
and  the  light  of  a  blazing  hickory  log  made  long  flicker 
ing  shadows  on  the  crimson  carpet.  In  this  dancing 
light,  the  room  looked  still  more  like  a  grove  than  it  had 
to  Marty  at  high  noon.  Stephen's  eyes  fastened  hun 
grily  on  the  sight. 

"  Your  room  is  almost  too  much  to  resist,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  I  will  not  come  in  now.  I  did  not  know  it  was  so 
late.  My  mother  wishes  to  know  if  you  and  your 
mother  will  not  come  in  and  eat  a  Christmas  dinner 
with  us  to-morrow.  We  live  in  the  plainest  way,  and 
cannot  entertain  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  term. 
We  only  ask  you  to  our  ordinary  home-dinner,"  he 
added,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  the  incongruity  between 
the  atmosphere  of  refined  elegance  which  pervaded 
Mercy's  simple,  little  room,  and  the  expression  which 
all  his  efforts  had  never  been  able  to  banish  from  his 
mother's  parlor. 

"  Oh  thank  you,  Mr.  White.  You  are  very  good.  1 
think  we  should  like  to  come  very  much.  Mother  and 
I  were  just  saying  that  it  would  be  the  first  Christmas 
dinner  we  ever  ate  alone.  But  you  must  come  in,  Mr. 
White,  —  I  insist  upon  it,"  replied  Mercy,  stretching  out 
one  hand  towards  him,  as  if  to  draw  him  in. 

Stephen  went.  On  the  threshold  of  the  sitting-room 
he  paused  and  stood  silent  for  some  minutes.  Mercy 
was  relighting  the  lamps. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Philbrick ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  won't  you 
please  not  light  the  lamps.  This  firelight  on  these  ever 
greens  is  the  loveliest  thing  I  ever  saw." 


136  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

Too  unconventional  to  think  of  any  reasons  why  she 
should  not  sit  with  Stephen  White  alone  by  firelight 
in  her  own  house,  Mercy  blew  out  the  lamp  she  had 
lighted,  and  drawing  a  chair  close  up  to  the  hearth  sat 
down,  and  clasping  her  hands  in  her  lap  looked  eagerly 
into  Stephen's  face,  and  said  as  simply  as  a  child,  — 

"I  like  firelight,  too,  a  great  deal  better  than  any 
other  light.  Some  evenings  we  do  not  light  the  lamps 
at  all.  Mother  can  knit  just  as  well  without  much  light, 
and  I  can  think  better." 

Mercy  was  sitting  in  a  chair  so  low  that,  to  look  at 
Stephen,  she  had  to  lift  her  face.  It  was  the  position  in 
which  her  face  was  sweetest.  Some  lines,  which  were  a 
shade  too  strong  and  positive  when  her  face  fully  con 
fronted  you,  disappeared  entirely  when  it  was  thrown 
back  and  her  eyes  were  lifted.  It  was  then  as  ingenuous 
and  tender  and  trustful  a  face  as  if  she  had  been  but 
eight  instead  of  eighteen. 

Stephen  forgot  himself,  forgot  the  fact  that  Mercy 
was  comparatively  a  stranger,  forgot  every  thing,  except 
the  one  intense  consciousness  of  this  sweet  woman-face 
looking  up  into  his.  Bending  towards  her,  he  said 
suddenly,  — 

"  Mrs.  Philbrick,  your  face  is  the  very  loveliest  face 
I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me. 
Oh,  do  not ! "  he  continued,  seeing  the  color  deepen  in 
Mercy's  cheeks,  and  a  stern  expression  gathering  in  her 
eyes,  as  she  looked  steadily  at  him  with  unutterable  sur 
prise.  "  Do  not  be  angry  with  me.  I  could  not  help 
saying  it ;  but  I  do  not  say  it  as  men  generally  say  such 


MERCY  P HI LB RICK'S   CHOICE.  137 

things.  I  am  not  like  other  men  :  I  have  lived  alone  ail 
my  life  with  my  mother.  You  need  not  mind  my  saying 
your  face  is  lovely,  any  more  than  my  saying  that  the 
ferns  on  the  walls  are  lovely." 

If  Stephen  had  known  Mercy  from  her  childhood,  he 
could  not  have  framed  his  words  more  wisely.  Every 
fibre  of  her  artistic  nature  recognized  the  possibility  of 
a  subtle  truth  in  what  he  said,  and  his  calm,  dreamy 
tone  and  look  heightened  this  impression.  Moreover, 
as  Stephen's  soul  had  been  during  all  the  past  four 
weeks  slowly  growing  into  the  feeling  which  made  it 
inevitable  that  he  should  say  these  words  on  first  look 
ing  closely  and  intimately  into  Mercy's  face,  so  had 
her  soul  been  slowly  growing  into  the  feeling  which 
made  it  seem  not  really  foreign  or  unnatural  to  her  that 
he  should  say  them. 

She  answered  him  with  hesitating  syllables,  quite 
unlike  her  usual  fluent  speech. 

"  I  think  you  must  mean  what  you  say,  Mr.  White ; 
and  you  do  not  say  it  as  other  men  have  said  it.  But 
will  you  please  to  remember  not  to  say  it  again  ?  We 
cannot  be  friends,  if  you  do." 

"Never  again,  Mrs.  Philbrick?"  he  said,  —  he  could 
almost  have  said  "  Mercy,"  —  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
gaze  of  whose  intentness  he  was  hardly  aware. 

Mercy  felt  a  strange  terror  of  this  man  ;  a  few  minutes 
ago  a  stranger,  now  already  asking  at  her  hands  she 
hardly  knew  what,  and  compelling  her  in  spite  of  her 
self.  But  she  replied  very  quietly,  with  a  slight  smile,  — 

"Never,   Mr.  White      Now  talk  of  something  else. 


MERCY  PHILBRICICS   CHOICE. 


please.  Your  mother  seemed  very  much  pleased  with 
the  ferns  I  carried  her  to-day.  Did  she  love  the  woods, 
when  she  was  well  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  never  heard  her  say,"  answered 
Stephen,  absently,  still  gazing  into  Mercy's  face. 

"  But  you  would  have  known,  surely,  if  she  had  cared 
for  them,"  said  Mercy,  laughing  ;  for  she  perceived  that 
Stephen  had  spoken  at  random. 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  —  certainly.  I  should  have 
known,"  said  Stephen,  still  with  a  preoccupied  air,  and 
rising  to  go.  "  I  thank  you  for  letting  me  come  into  this 
beautiful  room  with  you.  I  shall  always  think  of  your 
face  framed  in  evergreens,  and  with  flickering  firelight 
on  it." 

"  You  are  not  going  away,  are  you,  Mr.  White  ?  " 
asked  Mercy,  mischievously. 

"Oh,  no,  certainly  not.  I  never  go  away.  How 
could  I  go  away  ?  Why  did  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  laughed  Mercy,  "  because  you  spoke  as  if  you 
never  expected  to  see  my  face  after  to-night.  That  's  all." 

Stephen  smiled.  u  I  am  afraid  I  seem  a  very  absent- 
minded  person,"  he  said.  "  I  did  not  mean  that  at  all. 
I  hope  to  see  you  very  often,  if  I  may.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  White.  We  shall  be  very  glad  to 
see  you  as  often  as  you  like  to  come.  You  may  be  sure 
of  that  ;  but  you  must  come  earlier,  or  you  will  find  us 
all  asleep.  Good-night." 

Stephen  spent  another  half-hour  pacing  up  and  down 
in  the  snowy  path  in  front  of  the  house.  He  did  not 
wish  to  go  in  until  his  mother  was  asleep.  Very  well 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  139 

he  knew  that  it  would  be  better  that  she  did  not  see  his 
face  that  night.  When  he  went  in,  the  house  was  dark 
and  still.  As  he  passed  his  mother's  door,  she  called, 
"  Sieve ! " 

"  All  right,  mother.  They  '11  come,"  he  replied,  and 
ran  swiftly  up  to  his  own  room. 

During  this  half-hour,  Mercy  had  been  sitting  in  her 
low  chair  by  the  fire,  looking  steadily  into  the  leaping 
blaze,  and  communing  very  sternly  with  her  own  heart 
on  the  subject  of  Stephen  White.  Her  pitiless  honesty 
of  nature  was  just  as  inexorable  in  its  dealing  with  her 
own  soul  as  with  others  ;  she  never  paltered  with,  nor 
evaded  an  accusation  of,  her  consciousness.  At  this 
moment,  she  was  indignantly  admitting  to  herself  that 
her  conduct  and  her  feeling  towards  Stephen  were  both 
deserving  of  condemnation.  But,  when  she  asked  her 
self  for  their  reason,  no  answer  came  framed  in  words, 
no  explanation  suggested  itself,  only  Stephen's  face 
rose  up  before  her,  vivid,  pleading,  as  he  had  looked 
when  he  said,  "  Never  again,  Mrs.  Philbrick  ? "  and  as 
she  looked  again  into  the  dark  blue  eyes,  and  heard  the 
low  tones  over  again,  she  sank  into  a  deeper  and  deeper 
reverie,  from  which  gradually  all  self-accusation,  all  per 
plexity,  faded  away,  leaving  behind  them  only  a  vague 
happiness,  a  dreamy  sense  of  joy.  If  lovers  could  look 
back  on  the  first  quickening  of  love  in  their  souls,  how 
precious  would  be  the  memories ;  but  the  unawakened 
heart  never  knows  the  precise  instant  of  the  quickening. 
It  is  wrapped  in  a  half-conscious  wonder  and  anticipa 
tion  ;  and,  by  the  time  the  full  revelation  comes,  the  im 


140  MERCY  FHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

press  of  the  first  moments  has  been  wiped  out  by  intenser 
experiences.  How  many  lovers  have  longed  to  trace 
the  sweet  stream  back  to  its  very  source,  to  the  hidden 
spring  which  no  man  saw,  but  have  lost  themselves 
presently  in  the  broad  greenness,  undisturbed  and  fer 
tile,  through  which,  like  a  hidden  stream  through  an 
emerald  meadow,  the  love  had  been  flowing  undiscovered. 

Months  after,  when  Mercy's  thoughts  reverted  to  this 
evening,  all  she  could  recollect  was  that  on  the  night  of 
Stephen's  first  call  she  had  been  much  puzzled  by  his 
manner  and  his  words,  had  thought  it  very  strange  that 
he  should  seem  to  care  so  much  for  her,  and  perhaps 
still  more  strange  that  she  herself  found  it  not  unpleas- 
ing  that  he  did  so.  Stephen's  reminiscences  were  at 
once  more  distinct  and  more  indistinct, — more  distinct 
of  his  emotions,  more  indistinct  of  the  incidents.  He 
could  not  recollect  one  word  which  had  been  said :  only 
his  own  vivid  consciousness  of  Mercy's  beauty ;  her  face 
"  framed  in  evergreens,  with  the  firelight  flickering  on  it," 
as  he  had  told  her  he  should  always  think  of  it. 

Christmas  morning  came,  clear,  cold,  shining  bright. 
A  slight  thaw  the  day  before  had  left  every  bough  and 
twig  and  pine-needle  covered  with  a  moisture  that  had 
frozen  in  the  night  into  glittering  crystal  sheaths,  which 
flashed  like  millions  of  prisms  in  the  sun.  The  beauty 
of  the  scene  was  almost  solemn.  The  air  was  so  frosty 
cold  that  even  the  noon  sun  did  not  melt  these  ice- 
sheaths  ;  and,  under  the  flood  of  the  full  mid-day  light, 
the  whole  landscape  seemed  one  blaze  of  jewels.  When 
Mercy  and  her  mother  entered  Mrs.  White's  room,  half 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  14* 

an  hour  before  the  dinner-hour,  they  found  her  sitting 
with  the  curtains  drawn,  because  the  light  had  hurt  her 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  White !  "  exclaimed  Mercy.  "  It  is  cruel 
you  should  not  see  this  glorious  spectacle  !  If  you  had 
the  window  open,  the  light  would  not  hurt  your  eyes. 
It  is  the  glare  of  it  coming  through  the  glass.  Let  us 
wrap  you  up,  and  draw  you  close  to  the  window,  and 
open  it  wide,  so  that  you  can  see  the  colors  for  a  few 
minutes.  It  is  just  like  fairy-land." 

Mrs.  White  looked  bewildered.  Such  a  plan  as  this 
of  getting  out-door  air  she  had  never  thought  of. 

"  Won't  it  make  the  room  too  cold  ? "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  no ! "  cried  Mercy ;  "  and  no  matter  if  it 
does.  We  can  soon  warm  it  up  again.  Please  let  me 
ask  Marty  to  come  ? "  And,  hardly  waiting  for  permission, 
she  ran  to  call  Marty.  Wrapped  up  in  blankets,  Mrs. 
White  was  then  drawn  in  her  bed  close  to  the  open  win 
dow,  and  lay  there  with  a  look  of  almost  perplexed  de 
light  on  her  face.  When  Stephen  came  in,  Mercy  stood 
behind  her,  a  fleecy  white  cloud  thrown  over  her  head, 
pointing  out  eagerly  every  point  of  beauty  in  the  view. 
A  high  bush  of  sweet-brier,  with  long,  slender,  curving 
branches,  grew  just  in  front  of  the  window.  Many  of  the 
cup-like  seed-vessels  still  hung  on  the  boughs  :  they 
were  all  finely  encrusted  with  frost.  As  the  wind  faintly 
stirred  the  branches,  every  frost-globule  flashed  its  full 
rainbow  of  color ;  the  long  sprays  looked  like  wands 
strung  with  tiny  fairy  beakers,  inlaid  with  pearls  and  dia 
monds.  Mercy  sprang  to  the  window,  took  one  of  these 


142  MERCY  PHILBR1CICS   CHOICE. 

sprays  in  her  fingers,  and  slowly  waved  it  up  and  down 
in  the  sunlight. 

"Oh, -look  at  it  against  the  blue  sky!"  she  cried. 
"  I»n't  it  enough  to  make  one  cry  just  to  see  it? " 

"  Oh,  how  can  mother  help  loving  her  ? "  thought  Ste 
phen.  "  She  is  the  sweetest  woman  that  ever  drew 
breath." 

'  Mrs.  White  seemed  indeed  to  have  lost  all  her  former 
distrust  and  antagonism.  She  followed  Mercy's  move 
ments  with  eyes  not  much  less  eager  and  pleased  than 
Stephen's.  It  was  like  a  great  burst  of  sunlight  into 
a  dark  place,  the  coming  of  this  earnest,  joyous,  out 
spoken  nature  into  the  old  woman's  narrow  and  monoto 
nous  and  comparatively  uncheered  life.  She  had  never 
seen  a  person  of  Mercy's  temperament.  The  clear,  de 
cided,  incisive  manner  commanded  her  respect,  while 
the  sunny  gayery  won  her  liking.  Stephen  had  gentle, 
placid  sweetness  and  much  love  of  the  beautiful ;  but 
his  love  of  the  beautiful  was  an  indolent,  and  one  might 
almost  say  a  haughty,  demand  in  his  nature.  Mercy's 
was  a  bounding  and  delighted  acceptance.  She  was 
cheery :  he  was  only  placid.  She  was  full  of  delight ; 
he,  only  of  satisfaction.  In  her,  joy  was  of  the  spirit, 
spiritual.  Keen  as  were  her  senses,  it  was  her  soul  which 
marshalled  them  all.  In  him,  though  the  soul's  forces 
were  not  feeble,  the  senses  foreran  them,  —  compelled 
them,  sometimes  conquered  them.  It  would  have  been 
impossible  to  put  Mercy  in  any  circumstances,  in  any 
situation,  out  of  which,  or  in  spite  of  which,  she  would 
not  find  joy.  But  in  Stephen  circumstance  and  place 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  143 

might  as  easily  destroy  as  create  happiness.  His  enjoy 
ment  was  as  far  inferior  to  Mercy's  in  genuineness  and 
enduringness  as  is  the  shallow  lake  to  the  quenchless 
spring.  The  waters  of  each  may  leap  and  sparkle  alike, 
to  the  eye,  in  the  sunshine  ;  but  when  drought  has  fallen 
on  the  lake,  and  the  place  that  knew  it  knows  it  no 
more,  the  spring  is  full,  free,  and  glad  as  ever. 

Mrs.  White's  pleasure  in  Mercy's  presence  was  short 
lived.  Long  before  the  simple  dinner  was  over,  she  had 
relapsed  into  her  old  forbidding  manner,  and  into  a 
silence  which  was  more  chilly  than  any  words  could 
have  been.  The  reason  was  manifest.  She  read  in 
every  glance  of  Stephen's  eyes,  in  every  tone  of  his  voice, 
the  depth  and  the  warmth  of  his  feeling  towards  Mercy. 
The  jealous  distrust  which  she  had  felt  at  first,  and  which 
had  slept  for  a  brief  time  under  the  spell  of  Mercy's 
kindliness  towards  herself,  sprang  into  fiercer  life  than 
ever.  Stephen  and  Mercy,  in  utter  unconsciousness  of 
the  change  which  was  gradually  taking  place,  talked  and 
laughed  together  in  an  evident  gay  delight,  which  made 
matters  worse  every  moment.  A  short  and  surly  reply 
from  Mrs.  White  to  an  innocent  question  of  Mrs.  Carr's 
fell  suddenly  on  Mercy's  ear.  Keenly  alive  to  the  small 
est  slight  to  her  mother,  she  turned  quickly  towards  Mrs. 
White,  and,  to  her  consternation,  met  the  same  steady, 
pitiless,  aggressive  look  which  she  had  seen  on  her  face 
in  their  first  interview.  Mercy's  first  emotion  was  one 
of  great  indignation  :  her  second  was  a  quick  flash  of 
comprehension  of  the  whole  thing.  A  great  wave  of 
rosy  color  swept  over  her  face ;  and,  without  knowing 


144  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

what  she  was  doing,  she  looked  appealingly  at  Stephen. 
Already  there  was  between  them  so  subtle  a  bond  that 
each  understood  the  other  without  words.  Stephen 
knew  all  that  Mercy  thought  in  that  instant,  and  an  an 
swering  flush  mounted  to  his  forehead.  Mrs.  White  saw 
both  these  flushes,  and  compressed  her  lips  still  more 
closely  in  a  grimmer  silence  than  before.  Poor,  unsus 
pecting  Mrs.  Carr  kept  on  and  on  with  her  meaningless 
and  childish  remarks  and  inquiries ;  and  Mercy  and 
Stephen  were  both  very  grateful  for  them.  The  dinner 
came  to  an  untimely  end ;  and  almost  immediately 
Mercy,  with  a  nervous  and  embarrassed  air,  totally  for 
eign  to  her,  said  to  her  mother,  — 

<;  We  must  go  home  now.     I  have  letters  to  write." 

Mrs.  Carr  was  disappointed.  She  had  anticipated  a 
long  afternoon  of  chatty  gossip  with  her  neighbor ;  but 
she  saw  that  Mercy  had  some  strong  reason  for  hurrying 
home,  and  she  acquiesced  unhesitatingly. 

Mrs.  White  did  not  urge  them  to  remain.  To  all 
Mrs.  White's  faults  it  must  be  confessed  that  she  added 
the  virtue  of  absolute  sincerity. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Carr,"  and  "  Good-afternoon, 
Mrs.  Philbrick,"  fell  from  her  lips  in  the  same  measured 
syllables  and  the  same  cold,  unhuman  voice  which  had 
t>o  startled  Mercy  once  before. 

"What  a  perfectly  horrid  old  woman!"  exclaimed 
Mercy,  as  soon  as  they  had  crossed  the  threshold  of 
their  own  door.  '•  I  '11  never  go  near  her  again  as  long 
us  I  live  !  " 

"Why,  Mercy  Carr!"  exclaimed  her  mother,  "what 


MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  145 

do  you  mean?  I  don't  think  so.  She  got  very  tired 
before  dinner  was  over.  I  could  see  that,  poor  thing ! 
She  's  drefful  weak,  an'  it  Stan's  to  reason  she  'd  be  kind 
o'  snappish  sometimes." 

Mercy  opened  her  lips  to  reply,  but  changed  her  mind 
and  said  nothing. 

"  It 's  just  as  well  for  mother  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  her,  if  she  can,"  she  thought.  "  Maybe  it  '11  help 
divert  a  little  of  Mrs.  White's  temper  from  him,  poor 
fellow ! " 

Stephen  had  followed  them  to  the  door,  saying  little  ; 
but  at  the  last  moment,  when  Mercy  said  "good-by," 
he  had  suddenly  held  out  his  hand,  and,  clasping  hers 
tightly,  had  looked  at  her  sadly,  with  a  world  of  regret 
and  appeal  and  affection  and  almost  despair  in  the 
look. 

"  What  a  life  he  must  lead  of  it !  "  thought  Mercy. 
"  Dear  me !  I  should  go  wild  or  else  get  very  wicked. 
I  believe  I  'd  get  very  wicked.  I  wonder  he  shuts  him 
self  up  so  with  her.  It  is  all  nonsense  :  it  only  makes 
her  more  and  more  selfish.  How  mean,  how  base  of 
her,  to  be  so  jealous  of  his  talking  with  me  !  If  she  were 
his  wife,  it  would  be  another  thing.  But  he  doesn't 
belong  to  her  body  and  soul,  if  she  is  his  mother.  If 
ever  I  know  him  well  enough,  I  '11  tell  him  so.  It  isn't 
manly  in  him  to  let  her  tyrannize  over  him  and  every 
body  else  that  comes  into  the  house.  I  never  saw  any 
human  being  that  made  one  so  afraid,  somehow.  Her 
tone  and  look  are  enough  to  freeze  your  blood." 

While  Mercy  was  buried  in  these  indignant  thoughts, 
7  I 


If  A  ACT  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


Stephen  and  his  mother,  only  a  few  feet  away,  sep; 
rated  from  her  only  by  a  wall,  were  having  a  fierce  ai*- 
angry  talk.  No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  upo« 
Mercy  than  Mrs.  White  had  said  to  Stephen,  — 

"  Have  you  the  slightest  idea  how  much  excitement 
you  showed  in  conversing  with  Mrs.  Philbrick  ?  I  have 
never  seen  you  look  or  speak  in  this  way." 

The  flush  had  not  yet  died  away  on  Stephen's  face. 
At  this  attack,  it  grew  deeper  still.  He  made  no  reply. 
Mrs.  White  continued,  — 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  your  face.  It  is  almost  pur 
ple  now." 

"It  is  enough  to  make  the  blood  mount  to  any  man's 
face,  mother,  to  be  accused  so,"  replied  Stephen,  with  a 
spirit  unusual  for  him. 

"  I  don't  accuse  you  of  any  thing,"  she  retorted.  "  I 
am  only  speaking  of  what  I  observe.  You  needn't  think 
you  can  deceive  me  about  the  least  thing,  ever.  Your 
face  is  a  perfect  tell-tale  of  your  thoughts,  always." 

Poor  Stephen  groaned  inwardly.  Too  well  he  knew 
his  inability  to  control  his  unfortunate  face. 

"  Mother  !  "  he  exclaimed  with  almost  vehemence  of 
tone,  "  mother  !  do  not  carry  this  thing  too  far.  I  do 
not  in  the  least  understand  what  you  are  driving  at 
about  Mrs.  Philbrick,  nor  why  you  show  these  capri 
cious  changes  of  feeling  towards  her.  I  think  you  have 
treated  her  so  to-day  that  she  will  never  darken  your 
doors  again.  I  never  should,  if  I  were  in  her  place." 

"  Very  well,  I  hope  she  never  will,  if  her  presence  is 
to  produce  such  an  effect  on  you.  It  is  enough  to  turn 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  147 

her  head  to  see  that  she  has  such  power  over  a  man  like 
you.  She  is  a  very  vain  woman,  anyway,  —  vain  of  her 
power  over  people,  I  think." 

Stephen  could  bear  no  more.  With  a  half-smothered 
ejaculation  of  "  O  mother ! "  he  left  the  room. 

And  thus  the  old  year  went  out  and  the  new  yeai 
came  in  for  Mercy  Philbrick  and  Stephen  White,  —  the 
old  year  in  which  they  had  been  nothing,  and  the  new 
year  in  which  they  were  to  be  every  thing  to  each 
other. 


148  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

r  I  "'HE  next  morning,  while  Stephen  was  dressing,  he 
•••  slowly  reviewed  the  events  of  the  previous  day, 
and  took  several  resolutions.  If  Mrs.  White  could  have 
had  the  faintest  conception  of  what  was  passing  in  her 
son's  mind,  while  he  sat  opposite  to  her  at  breakfast,  so 
unusually  cheerful  and  talkative,  she  would  have  been 
very  unhappy.  But  she,  too,  had  had  a  season  of  reflec 
tion  this  morning,  and  was  much  absorbed  in  her  own 
plans.  She  heartily  regretted  having  shown  so  much  ill- 
feeling  in  regard  to  Mercy ;  and  she  had  resolved  to 
atone  for  it  in  some  way,  if  she  could.  Above  all,  she 
had  resolved,  if  possible,  to  banish  from  Stephen's  mind 
the  idea  that  she  was  jealous  of  Mercy  or  hostile  towards 
her.  She  had  common  sense  enough  to  see  that  to  al 
low  him  to  recognize  this  feeling  on  her  part  was  to  drive 
him  at  once  into  a  course  of  manoeuvring  and  conceal 
ment.  She  flattered  herself  that  it  was  with  a  wholl} 
natural  and  easy  air  that  she  began  her  plan  of  opera 
tions  by  remarking,  — 

"  Mrs.  Philbrick  seems  to  be  very  fond  of  her  mother, 
'oes  she  not,  Stephen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very,"  answered  Stephen,  indifferently. 


MERCY  PHIL  BRICK'S  CHOICE.  149 

"  Mrs.  Carr  is  quite  an  old  woman.  She  must  have 
been  old  when  Mrs.  Philbrick  was  born.  I  don't  think 
Mrs.  Philbrick  can  be  more  than  twenty,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  I  never  thought  any  thing 
about  her  age,"  replied  Stephen,  still  more  indifferently. 
"  I  'm  no  judge  of  women's  ages." 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  she  isn't  more  than  twenty,  if  she  is 
that,"  said  Mrs.  White  ;  "  and  she  really  is  a  very  pretty 
woman,  Steve.  I  '11  grant  you  that." 

"Grant  me  that,  mother?"  laughed  Stephen,  lightly. 
"  I  never  said  she  was  pretty,  did  I  ?  The  first  time  I  saw 
her,  I  thought  she  was  uncommonly  plain  ;  but  after 
wards  I  saw  that  I  had  done  her  injustice.  I  don't 
think,  however,  she  would  usually  be  thought  pretty." 

Mrs.  White  was  much  gratified  by  his  careless  tone 
and  manner ;  so  much  so  that  she  went  farther  than  she 
had  intended,  and  said  in  an  off-hand  way,  "  I  'm  real 
sorry,  Steve,  you  thought  I  didn't  treat  her  well  yester 
day.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  but  you  know  it 
always  does  vex  me  to  see  a  woman's  head  turned  by  a 
man's  taking  a  little  notice  of  her ;  and  I  know  very 
well,  Stephy,  that  women  like  you.  It  wouldn't  take 
much  to  make  Mrs.  Philbrick  fancy  you  were  in  love 
with  her." 

Stephen  also  was  gratified  by  his  mother's  apparent 
softening  of  mood,  and  instinctively  met  her  more  than 
half  way,  replying, — 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that  you  were  rude  to  her, 
mother ;  only  you  showed  so  plainly  that  you  didn't 
want  them  to  stay.  Perhaps  she  didn't  notice  It,  only 


ISO  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

thought  you  were  tired.  It  isn't  any  great  matter,  any 
way.  We  'd  better  keep  on  good  terms  with  them,  if 
they  're  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  us,  that's  all." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  White.  "  Much  better  to  bj 
on  neighborly  terms.  The  old  mother  is  a  childish  old 
thing,  though.  She  'd  bore  me  to  death,  if  she  came  in 
often." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  she  is  a  bore,  sure  enough,"  said  Ste- 
phen  ;  "  but  she  's  so  simple,  and  so  much  like  a  child, 
you  can't  help  pitying  her." 

They  fenced  very  well,  these  two,  with  their  respec 
tive  secrets  to  keep ;  but  the  man  fenced  best,  his  secret 
being  the  most  momentous  to  shield  from  discovery. 
When  he  shut  the  door,  having  bade  his  mother  good- 
by,  he  fairly  breathed  hard  with  the  sense  of  having 
come  out  of  a  conflict.  One  of  the  resolutions  he  had 
taken  was  that  he  would  wait  for  Mercy  this  morning 
on  a  street  he  knew  she  must  pass  on  her  way  to  mar 
ket.  He  did  not  define  to  himself  any  motive  for  this 
act,  except  the  simple  longing  to  see  her  face.  He  had 
not  said  to  himself  what  he  would  do,  or  what  words  he 
would  speak,  or  even  that  he  would  speak  at  all ;  but 
one  look  at  her  face  he  must  have,  and  he  had  thought 
to  himself  distinctly  in  making  this  plan,  "  Here  is  one 
way  in  which  I  can  see  her  every  day,  and  my  mother 
never  know  any  thing  about  it." 

When  Mrs.  White  saw  Mercy  set  off  for  her  usual 
morning  walk,  a  half  hour  or  more  after  Stephen  had 
left  the  house,  she  thought,  as  she  had  often  thought 
before  on  similar  occasions,  "  Well,  she  won't  overtake 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


Stephen  this  time.  I  dare  say  she  planned  to."  Light- 
hearted  Mercy,  meantime,  was  walking  on  with  her  own 
swift,  elastic  tread,  and  thinking  warmly  and  shyly  of 
the  look  with  which  Stephen  had  bade  her  good-by  the 
day  before.  She  was  walking,  as  was  her  habit,  with  her 
eyes  cast  down,  and  did  not  observe  that  any  one 
approached  her,  until  she  suddenly  heard  Stephen's 
voice  saying,  "  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Philbrick."  It  was 
the  second  time  that  he  had  surprised  her  in  a  reverie 
of  which  he  himself  was  the  subject.  This  time  the 
surprise  was  a  joyful  one  ;  and  the  quick  flush  of  rosy 
color  which  spread  over  her  cheeks  was  a  flush  of  glad 
ness,  —  undisguised  and  honest  gladness. 

"  Why,  Mr.  White,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  never  thought 
of  seeing  you.  I  thought  you  were  always  in  your 
office  at  this  time." 

"  I  waited  to  see  you  this  morning,"  replied  Stephen, 
in  a  tone  as  simply  honest  as  her  own.  "  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you." 

Mercy  looked  up  inquiringly,  but  did  not  speak. 
Stephen  smiled. 

"  Oh,  not  for  any  particular  thing,"  he  said  :  "  only  for 
the  pleasure  of  it." 

Then  Mercy  smiled,  and  the  two  looked  into  each 
other's  faces  with  a  joy  which  neither  attempted  to  dis 
guise.  Stephen  took  Mercy's  basket  from  her  arm; 
and  they  walked  along  in  silence,  not  knowing  that 
it  was  silence,  so  full  was  it  of  sweet  meanings  to  them 
in  the  simple  fact  that  they  were  walking  by  each  other's 
side.  The  few  words  they  did  speak  were  of  the  pur- 


152  MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

poseless  and  irrelevant  sort  in  which  unacknowledged 
lovers  do  so  universally  express  themselves  in  their 
earlier  moments  alone  together,  —  a  sort  of  speech 
mere  like  birds  chirping  than  like  ordinary  language. 
When  they  parted  at  the  door  of  Stephen's  office, 
he  said, — 

"  I  think  you  always  come  to  the  village  about  this 
time  in  the  morning,  do  you  not?" 

"  Yes,  always,"  replied  Mercy. 

"  Then,  if  you  are  willing,  I  would  like  sometimes  to 
walk  with  you,"  said  Stephen. 

"  I  like  it  very  much,  Mr.  White,"  answered  Mercy, 
eagerly.  "  I  used  to  walk  a  great  deal  with  Mr.  Allen, 
and  I  miss  it  sadly." 

A  jealous  pang  shot  through  Stephen's  heart.  He 
had  been  blind.  This  was  the  reason  Harley  Allen  had 
taken  such  interest  in  finding  a  home  for  Mrs.  Philbrick 
and  her  mother.  He  remembered  now  that  he  had 
thought  at  the  time  some  of  the  expressions  in  his 
friend's  letter  argued  an  unusual  interest  in  the  young 
widow.  Of  course  no  man  could  know  Mercy  without 
loving  her.  Stephen  was  wretched  ;  but  no  trace  of  it 
showed  on  the  serene  and  smiling  face  with  which  he 
bade  Mercy  "  Good-by,"  and  ran  up  his  office-stairs 
three  steps  at  a  time. 

All  day  Mercy  went  about  her  affairs  with  a  new 
sense  of  impulse  and  cheer.  It  was  not  a  conscious 
anticipation  of  the  morrow  :  she  did  not  say  to  herself 
"  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  see  him  for  half  an  hour." 
Love  knows  the  secret  of  true  joy  better  than  that 


MERCY  PHILBhICK'S   CHOICE.  I  S3 

Love  throws  open  wider  doors,  —  lifts  a  great  veil  from 
a  measureless  vista :  all  the  rest  of  life  is  transformed 
into  one  shining  distance  ;  every  present  moment  is  but 
a  round  in  a  ladder  whose  top  disappears  in  the  skies, 
from  which  angels  are  perpetually  descending  to  the 
dreamer  below. 

The  next  morning  Mercy  saw  Stephen  leave  the 
house  even  earlier  than  usual.  Her  first  thought  was 
one  of  blank  disappointment.  "  Why,  I  thought  he 
meant  to  walk  down  with  me,"  she  said  to  herself.  Her 
second  thought  was  a  perplexed  instinct  of  the  truth : 
"  I  wonder  if  he  can  be  afraid  to  have  his  mother  see 
him  with  me  ? "  At  this  thought,  Mercy's  face  burned, 
and  she  tried  to  banish  it ;  but  it  would  not  be  banished, 
and  by  the  time  her  morning  duties  were  done,  and  she 
had  set  out  on  her  walk,  the  matter  had  become  quite 
clear  in  her  mind. 

"  I  shall  see  him  at  the  corner  where  he  was  yester 
day,"  she  said. 

But  no  Stephen  was  there.  Spite  of  herself,  Mercy 
lingered  and  looked  back.  She  was  grieved  and  she 
was  vexed. 

"  Why  did  he  say  he  wanted  to  walk  with  me,  and 
then  the  very  first  morning  not  come  ? "  she  said,  as  she 
walked  slowly  into  the  village. 

It  was  a  cloudy  day,  and  the  clouds  seemed  to  har 
monize  with  Mercy's  mood.  She  did  her  errands  in  a 
half-listless  way ;  and  more  than  one  of  the  tradespeople, 
who  had  come  to  know  her  voice  and  smile,  wondered 
what  had  gone  wrong  with  the  cheery  young  lady.  A1J 
7* 


154  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

the  way  home  she  looked  vainly  for  Stephen  at  every 
cross-street.  She  fancied  she  heard  his  step  behind 
her ;  she  fancied  she  saw  his  tall  figure  in  the  distance. 
After  she  reached  home  and  the  expectation  was  over 
for  that  day,  she  took  herself  angrily  to  task  for  her 
folly.  She  reminded  herself  that  Stephen  had  said 
"  sometimes,"  not  "  always ; "  and  that  nothing  could 
have  been  more  unlikely  than  that  he  should  have 
joined  her  the  very  next  day.  Nevertheless,  she  was 
full  of  uneasy  wonder  how  soon  he  would  come  again  ; 
and,  when  the  next  morning  dawned  clear  and  bright, 
her  first  thought  as  she  sprang  up  was,  — 

"  This  is  such  a  lovely  day  for  a  walk !  He  will  surely 
come  to-day." 

Again  she  was  disappointed.  Stephen  left  the  house 
at  a  very  early  hour,  and  walked  briskly  away  without 
looking  back.  Mercy  forced  herself  to  go  through  her 
usual  routine  of  morning  work.  She  was  systematic 
almost  to  a  fault  in  the  arrangement  of  her  time,  and 
any  interference  with  her  hours  was  usually  a  severe 
trial  of  her  patience.  But  to-day  it  was  only  by  a  great 
effort  of  her  will  that  she  refrained  from  setting  out 
earlier  than  usual  for  the  village.  She  walked  rapidly 
until  she  approached  the  street  where  Stephen  had 
joined  her  before.  Then  she  slackened  her  pace,  and 
fixed  her  eyes  on  the  street.  No  person  was  to  be  seen 
in  it.  She  walked  slower  and  slower :  she  could  not 
believe  that  he  was  not  there.  Then  she  began  to  fear 
that  she  had  come  a  little  too  early.  She  turned  to 
retrace  her  steps ;  but  a  sudden  sense  of  shame  withheld 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  155 

her,  and  she  turned  back  again  almost  immediately,  and 
continued  her  course  towards  the  village,  walking  very 
slowly,  and  now  and  then  halting  and  looking  back. 
Still  no  Stephen.  Street  after  street  she  passed  :  no 
Stephen.  A  sort  of  indignant  grief  swelled  up  in 
Mercy's  bosom  ;  she  was  indignant  with  herself,  with 
him,  with  circumstances,  with  everybody ;  she  was  un 
reasoning  and  unreasonable  ;  she  longed  so  to  see  Ste 
phen's  face  that  she  could  not  think  clearly  of  any  thing 
else.  And  yet  she  was  ashamed  of  this  longing.  All 
these  struggling  emotions  together  were  too  much  for 
her ;  tears  came  into  her  eyes  ;  then  vexation  at  the 
tears  made  them  come  all  the  faster ;  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  Mercy  Philbrick  pulled  her  veil  over 
her  face  to  hide  that  she  was  crying.  Almost  in  the 
very  moment  that  she  had  done  this,  she  heard  a  quick 
step  behind  her,  and  Stephen's  voice  calling,  — 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Philbrick  !  Mrs.  Philbrick  !  do  not  walk  so 
fast.  I  am  trying  to  overtake  you." 

Feeling  as  guilty  as  a  child  detected  in  some  for 
bidden  spot,  Mercy  stood  still,  vainly  hoping  her  black 
veil  was  thick  enough  to  hide  her  red  eyes ;  vainly  try 
ing  to  regain  her  composure  enough  to  speak  in  her 
natural  voice,  and  smile  her  usual  smile.  Vainly,  in 
deed  !  What  crape  could  blind  a  lover's  eyes,  or  what 
forced  tone  deceive  a  lover's  ears  ? 

At  his  first  sight  of  her  face,  Stephen  started ;  at  the 
first  sound  of  her  voice,  he  stood  still,  and  exclaimed,— 

"  Mrs.  Philbrick,  you  have  been  crying !  " 

There  was  no  gainsaying  it,  even  if  Mercy  had  n9t 


MERCY  PUILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


been  too  honest  to  make  the  attempt.  She  looked  up 
mischievously  at  him,  and  tried  to  say  lightly,  — 

"What  then,  Mr.  White?  Didn't  you  know  all  women 
cried  ? " 

The  voice  was  too  tremulous.  Stephen  could  not  bear 
it.  Forgetting  that  they  were  on  a  public  street,  forget 
ting  every  thing  but  that  Mercy  was  crying,  he  ex 
claimed,  — 

"  Mercy,  what  is  it  ?    Do  let  me  help  you !    Can't  I?" 

She  did  not  even  observe  that  he  called  her  "Mercy." 
It  seemed  only  natural.  Without  realizing  the  full 
meaning  of  her  words,  she  said,  — 

"Oh,  you  have  helped  me  now,"  and  threw  up  her 
veil,  showing  a  face  where  smiles  were  already  trium 
phant.  Instinct  told  Stephen  in  the  same  second  what 
she  had  meant,  and  yet  had  not  meant  to  say.  He 
dropped  her  hand,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  Mercy,  did  you  really  have  tears  in  your  eyes  be 
cause  I  did  not  come  ?  Bless  you,  darling !  I  don't  dare 
to  speak  to  you  here.  Oh,  pray  come  down  this  little 
by-street  with  me." 

It  was  a  narrow  little  lane  behind  the  Brick  Row  into 
which  Stephen  and  Mercy  turned.  Although  it  was  so 
near  the  centre  of  the  town,  it  had  never  been  properly 
graded,  but  had  been  left  like  a  wild  bit  of  uneven  field. 
One  side  of  it  was  walled  by  the  Brick  Row ;  on  the 
other  side  were  only  a  few  poverty-stricken  houses,  in 
which  colored  people  lived.  The  snow  lay  piled  in 
drifts  here  all  winter,  and  in  spring  it  was  an  almost 
impassable  slough  of  mud.  There  was  now  no  trodden 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  157 

path,  only  the  track  made  by  sleighs  in  the  middle  of  the 
iane.  Into  this  strode  Stephen,  in  his  excitement  walk 
ing  so  fast  that  Mercy  could  hardly  keep  up  with  him. 
They  were  too  much  absorbed  in  their  own  sensations 
and  in  each  other  to  realize  the  oddity  of  their  appear 
ance,  floundering  in  the  deep  snow,  looking  eagerly  in 
each  other's  faces,  and  talking  in  a  breathless  and  dis 
jointed  way. 

"  Mercy,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  have  been  walking  up 
and  down  waiting  for  you  ever  since  I  came  out ;  but  a 
.nan  whom  I  could  not  get  away  from  stopped  me,  and 
I  had  to  stand  still  helpless  and  see  you  walk  by  the 
street,  and  I  was  afraid  I  could  not  overtake  you." 

"  Oh,  was  that  it  ? "  said  Mercy,  looking  up  timidly 
in  his  face.  "  I  felt  sure  you  would  be  there  this  morn 
ing,  because  "  — 

"  Because  what  ?  "  said  Stephen,  gently. 

"  Because  you  said  you  would  come  sometimes,  and  I 
knew  very  well  that  that  need  not  have  meant  this  par 
ticular  morning  nor  any  particular  morning ;  and  that 
was  what  vexed  me  so,  that  I  should  have  been  silly 
and  set  my  heart  on  it.  That  was  what  made  me  cry, 
Mr.  White,  I  was  so  vexed  with  myself,"  stoutly  as 
serted  Mercy,  beginning  to  feel  braver  and  more  like 
herself. 

Stephen  looked  her  full  in  the  face  without  speaking 
for  a  moment.  Then,  — 

"  May  I  call  you  Mercy  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied. 

"  May  I  say  to  you  exactly  what  I  am  thinking  ?  " 


158  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

11  Yes,"  she  replied  again,  a  little  more  hesitatingly. 

"  Then,  Mercy,  this  is  what  I  want  to  say  to  you,' 
said  Stephen,  earnestly.  "  There  is  no  reason  why  you 
and  I  should  try  to  deceive  each  other  or  ourselves.  I 
care  very,  very  much  for  you,  and  you  care  very  much 
for  me.  We  have  come  very  close  to  each  other,  and 
neither  of  our  lives  can  ever  be  the  same  again.  What 
is  in  store  for  us  in  all  this  we  cannot  now  see ;  but  it  is 
certain  we  are  very  much  to  each  other." 

He  spoke  more  and  more  slowly  and  earnestly ;  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  horizon  instead  of  on  Mercy's 
face.  A  deep  sadness  gradually  gathered  on  his  counte 
nance,  and  his  last  words  were  spoken  more  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  felt  a  new  exaltation  of  suffering  than  of 
one  who  felt  the  new  ecstasy  of  a  lover.  Looking  down 
into  Mercy's  face,  with  a  tenderness  which  made  her 
very  heart  thrill,  he  said, — 

"  Tell  me,  Mercy,  is  it  not  so  ?  Are  we  not  very  much 
to  each  other  ? " 

The  strange  reticence  of  his  tone,  even  more  reticent 
than  his  words,  had  affected  Mercy  inexplicably :  it  was 
as  if  a  chill  wind  had  suddenly  blown  at  noonday,  and 
made  her  shiver  in  spite  of  full  sunlight.  Her  tone  was 
almost  as  reticent  and  sad  as  his,  as  she  said,  without 
taising  her  eyes, — 

"  I  think  it  is  true." 

"  Please  look  up  at  me,  Mercy,"  said  Stephen.  "  I 
want  to  feel  sure  that  you  are  not  sorry  I  care  so  much 
for  you." 

"How  could  I  be  sorry?"  exclaimed  Mercy,  lifting 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  159 

her  eyes  suddenly,  and  looking  into  Stephen's  face  with 
all  the  fulness  of  affection  of  her  glowing  nature.  "  I 
shall  never  be  sorry." 

"Bless  you  for  saying  that,  dear! "  said  Stephen,  sol 
emnly, —  "bless  you.  You  should  never  be  sorry  a 
moment  in  your  life,  if  I  could  help  it ;  and  now,  dear, 
I  must  leave  you,"  he  said,  looking  uneasily  about.  "  I 
ought  not  to  have  brought  you  into  this  lane.  If  people 
were  to  see  us  walking  here,  they  would  think  it  strange." 
And,  as  they  reached  the  entrance  of  the  lane,  his  man 
ner  suddenly  became  most  ceremonious ;  and,  extending 
his  hand  to  assist  her  over  a  drift  of  snow,  he  said  in 
tones  unnecessarily  loud  and  formal,  "Good-morning, 
Mrs.  Philbrick.  I  am  glad  to  have  helped  you  through 
these  drifts.  Good-morning,"  and  was  gone. 

Mercy  stood  still,  and  looked  after  him  for  a  moment 
with  a  blank  sense  of  bewilderment.  His  sudden  change 
of  tone  and  manner  smote  her  like  a  blow.  She  com 
prehended  in  a  flash  the  subterfuge  in  it,  and  her  soul 
recoiled  from  it  with  incredulous  pain.  "  Why  should 
he  be  afraid  to  have  people  see  us  together  ?  What  does 
it  mean  ?  What  reason  can  he  possibly  have  ? "  Scores 
of  questions  like  these  crowded  on  her  mind,  and  hurt 
her  sorely.  Her  conjecture  even  ran  so  wide  as  to  sug 
gest  the  possibility  of  his  being  engaged  to  another 
woman,  —  some  old  and  mistaken  promise  by  which  he 
was  hampered.  Her  direct  and  honest  nature  could 
conceive  of  nothing  less  than  this  which  could  explain 
his  conduct.  Restlessly  her  imagination  fastened  on 
this  solution  of  the  problem,  and  tortured  her  in  vain 


l6o  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

efforts  to  decide  what  would  be  right  under  such  circum 
stances. 

The  day  was  a  long,  hard  one  for  Mercy-  The  more 
she  thought,  conjectured,  remembered,  and  anticipated, 
the  deeper  grew  her  perplexity.  All  the  joy  which  she 
had  at  first  felt  in  the  consciousness  that  Stephen  loved 
her  died  away  in  the  strain  of  these  conflicting  uncer 
tainties  :  and  it  was  a  grave  and  almost  stern  look  with 
which  she  met  him  that  night,  when,  with  an  eager  bear 
ing,  almost  radiant,  he  entered  her  door. 

He  felt  the  change  at  once,  and,  stretching  both  his 
hands  towards  her,  exclaimed,  — 

"Mercy,  my  dear,  new,  sweet  friend!  are  you  not 
well  to-night?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you.  I  am  very  well,"  replied  Mercy, 
In  a  tone  very  gentle,  but  with  a  shade  of  reserve  in  it. 

Stephen's  face  fell.  The  expression  of  patient  en 
durance  which  was  habitual  to  it,  and  which  Mercy 
knew  so  well,  and  found  always  so  irresistibly  appeal 
ing,  settled  again  on  all  his  features.  Without  speaking, 
he  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  hearth,  and  looked  stead 
fastly  into  the  fire.  Some  minutes  passed  in  silence. 
Mercy  felt  the  tears  coming  again  into  her  eyes.  What 
was  this  intangible  but  inexorable  thing  which  stood 
between  this  man's  soul  and  hers  ?  She  could  not 
doubt  that  he  loved  her ;  she  knew  that  her  whole  soul 
went  out  towards  him  with  a  love  of  which  she  had 
never  before  had  even  a  conception.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  the  words  he  had  spoken  and  she  had  received  had 
already  wrought  a  bond  between  them  which  nothing 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  l6l 

could  hinder  or  harm.  Why  should  they  sit  thus  silent 
by  each  other's  side  to-night,  when  so  few  hours  ago 
they  were  full  of  joy  and  gladness  ?  Was  it  the  future 
or  the  past  which  laid  this  seal  on  Stephen's  lips  ?  Mercy 
was  not  wont  to  be  helpless  or  inert.  She  saw  clearly, 
acted  quickly  always ;  but  here  she  was  powerless,  be 
cause  she  was  in  the  dark.  She  could  not  even  grope 
her  way  in  this  mystery.  At  last  Stephen  spoke. 

"Mercy,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  are  already  sorry 
that  I  care  so  much  for  you.  You  said  yesterday  you 
never  would  be." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed !  I  am  not,"  said  Mercy.  "  I  am 
very  glad  you  care  so  much  for  me." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  discovered  that  you  do  not  care 
so  much  for  me  as  you  yesterday  thought  you  did." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  "  replied  poor  Mercy,  in  a  low  tone. 

Again  Stephen  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  Then  he 
said,  — 

"Ever  since  I  can  remember,  I  have  longed  for  a 
perfect  and  absorbing  friendship.  The  peculiar  rela 
tions  of  my  life  have  prevented  my  even  hoping  for  it. 
My  father's  and  my  mother's  friends  never  could  be  my 
friends.  I  have  lived  the  loneliest  life  a  mortal  man 
ever  lived.  Until  I  saw  you,  Mercy,  I  had  never  even 
looked  on  the  face  of  a  woman  whom  it  seemed  possible 
to  me  that  any  man  could  love.  Perhaps,  when  I  tell 
you  that,  you  can  imagine  what  it  was  to  me  to  look  on 
the  face  of  a  woman  whom  it  seems  to  me  no  man  could 
help  loving.  I  suppose  many  men  have  loved  you, 
Mercy,  and  many  more  men  will.  I  do  not  think  any 

K 


162  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

man  has  ever  felt  for  you,  or  ever  will  feel  for  you,  as 
I  feel.  My  love  for  you  includes  every  love  the  heart 
can  know,  —  the  love  of  father,  brother,  friend,  lover. 
Young  as  I  am,  you  seem  to  me  like  my  child,  to  be 
taken  care  of  ;  and  you  seem  like  my  sister,  to  be  trusted 
and  loved ;  and  like  my  friend,  to  be  leaned  upon.  You 
see  what  my  life  is.  You  see  the  burden  which  I  must 
carry,  and  which  none  can  share.  Do  you  think  that 
the  friendship  I  can  give  you  can  be  worth  what  it  would 
ask  ?  I  feel  withheld  and  ashamed  as  I  speak  to  you. 
I  know  how  little  I  can  do,  how  little  I  can  offer.  To 
fetter  you  by  a  word  would  be  base  and  selfish ;  but, 
oh,  Mercy,  till  life  brings  you  something  better  than  my 
love,  let  me  love  you,  if  it  is  only  till  to-morrow ! " 

Mercy  listened  to  each  syllable  Stephen  spoke,  as 
one  in  a  wilderness,  flying  for  his  life  from  pursuers, 
would  listen  to  every  sound  which  could  give  the  faint 
est  indications  which  way  safety  might  lie.  If  she  had 
listened  dispassionately  to  such  words,  spoken  to  any 
other  woman,  her  native  honesty  of  soul  would  have 
repelled  them  as  unfair.  But  every  instinct  of  her 
nature  except  the  one  tender  instinct  of  loving  was  dis 
armed  and  blinded,  —  disarmed  by  her  affection  for  Ste 
phen,  and  blinded  by  her  profound  sympathy  for  his 
suffering. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  as  intently  as  if  she  would 
read  the  very  thoughts  of  his  heart. 

"  Do  you  understand  me,  Mercy  ? "  he  said. 

"  I  think  I  do,"  she  replied  in  a  whisper. 

"  If  you  do  not  now,  you  will  as  time  goes  on,"  he 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  163 

continued.  "  I  have  not  a  thought  I  am  unwilling  for  you 
to  know ;  but  there  are  thoughts  which  it  would  be 
wrong  for  me  to  put  into  words.  I  stand  where  I  stand  ; 
and  no  mortal  can  help  me,  except  you.  You  can  help 
me  infinitely.  Already  the  joy  of  seeing  you,  hearing 
you,  knowing  that  you  are  near,  makes  all  my  life  seem 
changed.  It  is  not  very  much  for  you  to  give  me,  Mercy, 
after  all,  out  of  the  illimitable  riches  of  your  beauty, 
your  brightness,  your  spirit,  your  strength,  — just  a  few 
words,  just  a  few  smiles,  just  a  little  love,  —  for  the  few 
days,  or  it  may  be  years,  that  fate  sets  us  by  each  other's 
side  ?  And  you,  too,  need  a  friend,  Mercy.  Your  duty 
to  another  has  brought  you  where  you  are  singularly 
alone,  for  the  time  being,  just  as  my  duty  to  another 
has  placed  me  where  I  must  be  singularly  alone.  Is 
it  not  a  strange  chance  which  has  thus  brought  us 
together  ? " 

"  I  do  not  believe  any  thing  is  chance,"  murmured 
Mercy.  "  I  must  have  been  sent  here  for  something." 

"  I  believe  you  were,  dear,"  said  Stephen,  "  sent  here 
for  my  salvation.  I  was  thinking  last  night  that,  no 
matter  if  my  life  should  end  without  my  ever  knowing 
what  other  men  call  happiness,  if  I  must  live  lonely  and 
alone  to  the  end,  I  should  still  have  the  memory  of  you,  — - 
of  your  face,  of  your  hand,  and  the  voice  in  which  you 
said  you  cared  for  me.  O  Mercy,  Mercy  1  you  have 
not  the  least  conception  of  what  you  are  to  me ! "  And 
Stephen  stretched  out  both  his  arms  to  her,  with  un 
speakable  love  in  the  gesture. 

So  swiftly  that  he  had  not  the  least  warning  of  her 


164  MERCY  PUILBRICK'S   C HOICK. 

intention,  Mercy  threw  herself  into  them,  and  laid  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  sobbing.  Shame  filled  her  soul, 
and  burned  in  her  cheeks,  when  Stephen,'  lifting  her 
as  he  would  a  child,  and  kissing  her  forehead  gently, 
placed  her  again  in  her  chair,  and  said,  — 

"  My  darling,  I  cannot  let  you  do  that.  I  will  never 
ask  from  you  any  thing  that  you  can  by  any  possibility 
come  to  regret  at  some  future  time.  I  ought  perhaps 
to  be  unselfish  enough  not  to  ask  from  you  any  thing  at 
all.  I  did  not  mean  to  ;  but  I  could  not  help  it,  and  it 
is  too  late  now." 

"  Yes,  it  is  too  late  now,"  said  Mercy,  —  "  too  late  now." 
And  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Mercy,"  exclaimed  Stephen,  in  a  voice  of  anguish, 
"  you  will  break  my  heart :  you  will  make  me  wish  my 
self  dead,  if  you  show  such  suffering  as  this.  I  thought 
that  you,  too,  could  find  joy,  and  perhaps  help,  in  my 
love,  as  I  could  in  yours.  If  it  is  to  give  you  pain  and 
not  happiness,  it  were  better  for  you  never  to  see  me 
again.  I  will  never  voluntarily  look  on  your  face  after 
to-night,  if  you  wish  it,  — if  you  would  be  happier  so." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  cried  Mercy.  Then,  overwhelmed  with 
the  sudden  realization  of  the  pain  she  was  giving  to  a 
man  whom  she  so  loved  that  at  that  moment  she  would 
have  died  to  shield  him  from  pain,  she  lifted  her  face, 
shook  back  the  hair  from  her  forehead,  and,  looking 
bravely  into  his  eyes,  repeated,  — 

"  No,  no !  I  am  very  selfish  to  feel  like  this.  I  do 
understand  you.  I  understand  it  all ;  and  I  will  help 
you,  and  comfort  you  all  I  can.  And  I  do  love  you 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  165 

very  dearly,"  she  added  in  a  lower  voice,  with  a  tone 
of  such  incomparable  sweetness  that  it  took  almost 
superhuman  control  on  Stephen's  part  to  refrain  from 
clasping  her  to  his  heart.  But  he  did  not  betray  the 
impulse,  even  by  a  gesture.  Looking  at  her  with  an 
expression  of  great  thankfulness,  he  said,  — 

"I  believe  that  peace  will  come  to  us,  Mercy.  I  be 
lieve  I  can  do  something  to  make  you  happy.  To  know 
that  I  love  you  as  I  do  will  be  a  great  deal  to  you,  I 
think."  He  paused. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mercy,  "  a  great  deal."  He  went 
on,— 

"  And  to  know  that  you  are  perpetually  helping  and 
cheering  me  will  be  still  more  to  you,  I  think.  We  shall 
know  some  joys,  Mercy,  which  joyous  lovers  never 
know.  Happy  people  do  not  need  each  other  as  sad 
people  do.  O  Mercy,  do  try  and  remember  all  the 
time  that  you  are  the  one  bright  thing  in  my  life,  —  in 
my  whole  life." 

"  I  will,  Stephen,  I  will,"  said  Mercy,  resolutely,  her 
whole  face  glowing  with  the  new  purposes  forming  in 
her  heart.  It  was  marvellous  how  clear  the  relation 
between  herself  and  Stephen  began  to  seem  to  her.  It 
was  rather  by  her  magnetic  consciousness  of  all  that  he 
was  thinking  and  feeling  than  by  the  literal  acceptance 
of  any  thing  or  all  things  which  he  said.  She  seemed 
to  herself  to  be  already  one  with  him  in  all  his  trials, 
burdens,  perplexities  ;  in  his  renunciation  ;  in  his  self- 
sacrifice  ;  in  his  loyalty  of  reticence ;  in  his  humility  of 
uncomplainingness. 


1 66  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

When  she  bacje  him  "  good-night,"  her  face  was  not  only 
serene :  it  was  serene  with  a  certain  exaltation  added,  as 
the  face  of  one  who  had  entered  into  a  great  steadfastness 
of  joy.  Stephen  wondered  greatly  at  this  transition 
from  the  excitement  and  grief  she  had  at  first  shown. 
He  had  yet  to  learn  what  wellsprings  of  strength  lie  in 
the  poetic  temperament. 

As  he  stood  lingering  on  the  threshold,  finding  it 
almost  impossible  to  turn  away  while  the  sweet  face 
held  him  by  the  honest  gaze  of  the  loving  eyes,  he  said, 

"  There  will  be  many  times,  dear,  when  things  will 
have  to  be  very  hard,  when  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  as 
you  would  like  to  have  me,  when  you  may  even  be 
pained  by  my  conduct.  Shall  you  trust  me  through  it 
all  ? " 

"  I  shall  trust  you  till  the  day  of  my  death,"  said 
Mercy,  impetuously.  "  One  can't  take  trust  back.  It 
isn't  a  gift :  it  is  a  necessity." 

Stephen  smiled, — a  smile  of  sorrow  rather  than  glad 
ness. 

"  But  if  you  thought  me  other  than  you  had  believed  ? " 
he  said. 

"  I  could  never  think  you  other  than  you  are,"  re 
plied  Mercy,  proudly.  It  is  not  that  I  '  believe '  you.  I 
know  you.  I  shall  trust  you  to  the  day  of  my  death." 

Perhaps  nothing  could  illustrate  better  the  difference 
between  Mercy  Philbrick's  nature  and  Stephen  White's, 
between  her  love  for  him  and  his  for  her,  than  the  fact 
that,  after  this  conversation,  she  lay  awake  far  into  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning,  living  over  every  word  that 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  167 

he  had  spoken,  looking  resolutely  and  even  joyously 
into  the  strange  future  which  was  opening  before  her, 
and  scanning  with  loving  intentness  every  chance  that 
it  could  possibly  hold  for  her  ministrations  to  him.  He, 
on  the  other  hand,  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow  with  a 
sense  of  dreamy  happiness,  and  sank  at  once  into  sleep, 
murmuring,  — 

"  The  darling !  how  she  does  love  me  !  She  shall 
never  regret  it,  —  never.  We  can  have  a  great  deal  of 
happiness  together  as  it  is  ;  and  if  the  time  ever  should 
come,"  .  .  . 

Here  his  thoughts  halted,  and  refused  to  be  clothed 
in  explicit  phrase.  Never  once  had  Stephen  White  per 
mitted  himself  to  think  in  words,  even  in  his  most  secret 
meditations,  "  When  my  mother  dies,  I  shall  be  free." 
His  fine  fastidiousness  would  shrink  from  it,  as  from 
the  particular  kind  of  brutality  and  bad  taste  involved 
in  a  murder.  If  the  whole  truth  could  have  been  known 
of  Stephen's  feeling  about  all  crimes  and  sins,  it  would 
have  been  found  to  be  far  more  a  matter  of  taste  than 
of  principle,  of  instinct  than  of  conviction. 

Surely  never  in  this  world  did  love  link  together  two 
souls  more  diametrically  opposite  than  Mercy  Phil- 
brick's  and  Stephen  White's.  It  needed  no  long  study 
or  especial  insight  into  character  to  know  which  of  the 
two  would  receive  the  more  and  suffer  the  less,  in  the 
abnormal  and  unfortunate  relation  on  which  they  had 
entered.  But  no  presentiment  warned  Mercy  of  what 
lay  before  her.  She  was  like  a  traveller  going  into  a 
country  whose  language  he  has  never  heard,  and  whose 


1 68  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

currency  he  does  not  understand.  However  eloquent 
he  may  be  in  his  own  land,  he  is  dumb  and  helpless 
here  ;  and  of  the  fortune  with  which  he  was  rich  at 
home  he  is  robbed  at  every  turn  by  false  exchanges 
which  impose  on  his  ignorance.  Poor  Mercy  J  Vaguely 
she  felt  that  life  was  cruel  to  Stephen  and  to  her ;  but 
she  accepted  its  cruelty  to  her  as  an  inevitable  part  of 
her  oneness  with  him.  Whatever  he  had  to  bear  shr 
must  bear  too,  especially  if  he  were  helped  by  her  shar 
ing  the  burden.  And  her  heart  glowed  with  happiness, 
recalling  the  expression  with  which  he  had  said,  — 

"Remember,  Mercy,  you  are  the  one  bright  thing  in 
my  life." 

She  understood,  or  thought  she  understood,  preciselj 
the  position  in  which  he  was  placed. 

"  Very  possibly  he  has  even  promised  his  mother,' 
she  said  to  herself,  "  even  promised  her  he  would  nevei 
be  married.  It  would  be  just  like  her  to  exact  such  ? 
promise  from  him,  and  never  think  any  thing  of  it.  And. 
even  if  he  has  not,  it  is  all  the  same.  He  knows  verj 
well  no  human  being  could  live  in  the  house  with  her,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  being  so  terribly  poor.  Poor,  deal 
Stephen !  to  think  of  our  little  rent  being  more  than 
half  his  income !  Oh,  if  there  were  only  some  way  in 
which  I  could  contrive  to  give  him  money  without  his 
knowing  it." 

If  any  one  had  said  to  Mercy  at  this  time  :  "  It  was 
not  honorable  in  this  man,  knowing  or  feeling  that 
he  could  not  marry  you,  to  tell  you  of  his  love,  and 
to  allow  you  to  show  him  yours  for  him.  He  is  put- 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  169 

ting  you  in  a"  false  position,  and  may  be  blighting  your 
whole  life,"  Mercy  would  have  repelled  the  accusation 
most  indignantly.  She  would  have  said :  "  He  has 
never  asked  me  for  any  such  love  as  that.  He  told  me 
most  honestly  in  the  very  beginning  just  how  it  was. 
He  always  said  he  would  never  fetter  me  by  a  word ; 
and,  once  when  I  forgot  myself  for  a  moment,  and  threw 
myself  into  his  very  arms,  he  only  kissed  my  forehead  as 
if  I  were  his  sister,  and  put  me  away  from  him  almost 
with  a  reproof.  No,  indeed !  he  is  the  very  soul  of 
honor.  It  is  I  who  choose  to  love  him  with  all  my  soul 
and  all  my  strength.  Why  should  not  a  woman  devote 
her  life  to  a  man  without  being  his  wife,  if  she  chooses, 
and  if  he  so  needs  her  ?  It  is  just  as  sacred  and  just 
as  holy  a  bond  as  the  other,  and  holier,  too ;  for  it  is 
more  unselfish.  If  he  can  give  up  the  happiness  of 
being  a  husband  and  father,  for  the  sake  of  his  duty  to 
his  mother,  cannot  I  give  up  the  happiness  of  being  a 
wife  and  mother,  for  the  sake  of  my  affection  and  duty 
towards  him  ? " 

It  looked  very  plain  to  Mercy  in  these  first  days.  It 
looked  right,  and  it  seemed  very  full  of  joy.  Her  life 
seemed  now  rounded  and  complete.  It  had  a  ruling 
motive,  without  which  no  life  is  satisfying;  and  that 
motive  was  the  highest  motive  known  to  the  heart,  —  the 
desire  to  make  another  human  being  perfectly  happy. 
All  hindrances  and  difficulties,  all  drawbacks  and  sacri 
fices,  seemed  less  tha-n  nothing  to  her.  When  she  saw 
Stephen,  she  was  happy  because  she  saw  him  ;  and  when 
she  did  not  see  him,  she  was  happy  because  she  had  seen 
8 


170  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

him,  and  would  soon  see  him  again.  Past,  present,  and 
future  all  melt  into  one  great  harmonious  whole  under  the 
spell  of  love  in  a  nature  like  Mercy's.  They  are  like  so 
many  rooms  in  one  great  house ;  and  in  one  or  the  othei 
the  loved  being  is  always  to  be  found,  always  at  home, 
can  never  depart !  Could  one  be  lonely  for  a  moment 
in  such  a  house  ? 

Mercy's  perpetual  and  abiding  joy  at  times  terrified 
Stephen.  It  was  a  thing  so  foreign  to  his  own  nature 
that  it  seemed  to  him  hardly  natural.  Calm  acquies 
cence  he  could  understand,  —  serene  endurance :  he  him 
self  never  chafed  at  the  barriers,  little  or  great,  which 
kept  him  from  Mercy.  But  there  were  many  days  when 
his  sense  of  deprivation  made  him  sad,  subdued,  and 
quiet.  When,  in  these  moods,  he  came  into  Mercy's 
presence,  and  found  her  radiant,  buoyant,  mirthful 
even,  he  wondered  ;  and  sometimes  he  questioned.  He 
strove  to  find  out  the  secret  of  her  joy.  There  seemed 
to  him  no  legitimate  reason  for  it. 

"  Why,  to  see  that  I  make  you  glad,  Stephen,"  she 
would  say.  "  Is  not  that  enough  ?  Or  even,  when  I  can 
not  make  you  glad,  just  to  love  you  is  enough." 

"  Mercy,  how  did  you  ever  come  to  love  me  ? "  he 
said  once,  stung  by  a  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness. 
"  How  do  you  know  you  love  me,  after  all  ?  " 

'•  How  do  I  know  I  love  you  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Can 
any  one  ever  tell  that,  I  wonder  ?  I  know  it  by  this  : 
that  every  thing  in  the  whole  world,  even  down  to  the 
smallest  grass-blade,  seems  to  me  different  because 
you  are  alive."  She  said  these  words  with  a  passionate 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  I/ 1 

vehemence,  and  tears  in  her  eyes  Then,  changing  in  a 
second  to  a  mischievous,  laughing  mood,  she  said,  — 

"  Yes :  you  make  all  that  odds  to  me.  But  let  us  not 
talk  about  loving  each  other,  Stephen.  That 's  the  wa> 
children  do  with  their  flower-seeds,  —  keep  pulling  them 
up,  to  see  how  they  grow." 

That  night,  Mercy  gave  Stephen  this  sonnet,  —  the 
first  words  she  had  written  out  of  the  great  wellspring 
of  her  love :  — 

"HOW  WAS   IT?" 

Why  ask,  dear  one  ?     I  think  I  cannot  tell, 
More  than  I  know  how  clouds  so  sudden  lift 
From  mountains,  or  how  snowflakes  float  and  drift, 
Or  springs  leave  hills.     One  secret  and  one  spell 
All  true  things  have.     No  sunlight  ever  fell 
With  sound  to  bid  flowers  open.     Still  and  swift 
Come  sweetest  things  on  earth. 

So  comes  true  gift 

Of  Love,  and  so  we  know  that  it  is  well. 
Sure  tokens  also,  like  the  cloud,  the  snow, 
And  silent  flowing  of  the  mountain-springs, 
The  new  gift  of  true  loving  always  brings. 
In  clearer  light,  in  purer  paths,  we  go : 
New  currents  of  deep  joy  in  common  things 
We  find.    These  are  the  tokens,  dear,  we  know  I 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AS  the  months  went  on,  Mercy  began  to  make  friends. 
One  person  after  another  observed  her  bright  face, 
asked  who  she  was,  and  came  to  seek  her  out.  "  Who  is 
that  girl  with  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,  who,  whenever  you 
meet  her  in  the  street,  always  looks  as  if  she  had  just 
heard  some  good  news  ?  "  was  asked  one  day.  It  was  a 
noteworthy  thing  that  this  description  was  so  instantly 
recognized  by  the  person  inquired  of,  that  he  had  no 
hesitancy  in  replying, — 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  young  widow  from  Cape  Cod,  a  Mrs. 
Philbrick.  She  came  last  winter  with  her  mother,  who 
is  an  invalid.  They  live  in  the  old  Jacobs  house  with 
the  Whites." 

Among  the  friends  whom  Mercy  thus  met  was  a  man 
who  was  destined  to  exercise  almost  as  powerful  an 
influence  as  Stephen  White  over  her  life.  This  was 
Parson  Dorrance. 

Parson  Dorrance  had  in  his  youth  been  settled  as  a  Con- 
gregationalist  minister.  But  his  love  of  literature  and 
of  science  was  even  stronger  than  his  love  of  preaching 
the  gospel ;  and,  after  a  very  few  years,  he  accepted  a 
position  as  professor  in  a  small  college,  in  a  town  only 
four  miles  distant  from  the  village  in  which  Mercy  had 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  1/3 

come  to  live.  This  was  twenty-five  years  ago.  Parson 
Dorrance  was  now  fifty-five  years  old.  For  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  his  name  had  been  the  pride,  and  his  hand 
had  been  the  stay,  of  the  college.  It  had  had  presi 
dents  of  renown  and  professors  of  brilliant  attainments ; 
but  Parson  Dorrance  held  a  position  more  enviable 
than  all.  Few  lives  of  such  simple  and  steadfast  hero 
ism  have  ever  been  lived.  Few  lives  have  ever  so 
stamped  the  mark  of  their  influence  on  a  community. 
In  the  second  year  of  his  ministry,  Mr.  Dorrance  had 
married  a  very  beautiful  and  brilliant  woman.  Probably 
no  two  young  people  ever  began  married  life  with  a 
fairer  future  before  them  than  these.  Mrs.  Dorrance 
was  as  exceptionally  clever  and  cultured  a  person  as 
her  husband  ;  and  she  added  to  these  rare  endowments  a 
personal  beauty  which  is  said  by  all  who  knew  her  in 
her  girlhood  to  have  been  marvellous.  But,  as  is  so 
often  the  case  among  New  England  women  of  culture, 
the  body  had  paid  the  cost  of  the  mind's  estate ;  and, 
after  the  birth  of  her  first  child,  she  sank  at  once  into  a 
hopeless  invalidism,  —  an  invalidism  all  the  more  diffi 
cult  to  bear,  and  to  be  borne  with,  that  it  took  the  shape 
of  distressing  nervous  maladies  which  no  medical  skil. 
could  alleviate.  The  brilliant  mind  became  almost  a 
wreck,  and  yet  retained  a  preternatural  restlessness  and 
activity.  Many  regarded  her  condition  as  insanity,  and 
believed  that  Mr.  Dorrance  erred  in  not  giving  her  up  to 
the  care  of  those  making  mental  disorders  a  specialty. 
But  his  love  and  patience  were  untiring.  When  her 
mental  depression  and  suffering  reached  such  a  stage 


174  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

that  she  could  not  safely  see  a  human  face  but  his,  he 
shut  himself  up  with  her  in  her  darkened  room  till  the 
crisis  had  passed.  There  were  times  when  she  could 
not  close  her  eyes  in  sleep  unless  he  sat  by  her  side, 
holding  her  hand  in  his,  and  gently  stroking  it.  He 
spent  weeks  of  nights  by  her  bedside  in  this  way.  At 
any  hour  of  the  day,  a  summons  might  come  from  her; 
and,  whatever  might  be  his  engagement,  it  was  instantly 
laid  aside,  —  laid  aside,  too,  with  cheerfulness  and 
alacrity.  At  times,  all  his  college  duties  would  be  sus 
pended  on  her  account;  and  his  own  specialties  of 
scientific  research,  in  which  he  was  beginning  to  win 
recognition  even  from  the  great  masters  of  science  in 
Europe,  were  very  early  laid  aside  for  ever.  It  must 
have  been  a  great  pang  to  him,  —  this  relinquishment 
of  fame,  and  of  what  is  dearer  to  the  true  scientific  man 
than  all  fame,  the  joys  of  discovery ;  but  no  man  ever 
heard  from  his  lips  an  allusion  to  the  sacrifice.  The  great 
telescope,  with  which  he  had  so  many  nights  swept  the 
heavens,  still  stood  in  his  garden  observatory;  but  it 
was  little  used  except  for  recreation,  and  for  the  pleasure 
and  instruction  of  his  boy.  Yet  no  one  would  have 
dreamed,  from  the  hearty  joy  with  which  he  used  it 
for  these  purposes,  that  it  had  ever  been  to  him  the 
token  and  the  instrument  of  the  great  hope  of  his  heart. 
The  resolute  cheer  of  this  man's  life  pervaded  the  whole 
atmosphere  of  his  house.  Spite  of  the  perpetual  shadow 
of  the  invalid's  darkened  room,  spite  of  the  inevitable 
circumscribing  of  narrow  means,  Parson  Dorrance's  cot 
tage  was  the  pleasantest  house  in  the  place,  was  tha 


MERCY  PHILEMON'S  CHOICE.  1 75 

house  to  which  all  the  townspeople  took  strangers  with 
pride,  and  was  the  house  which  strangers  never  forgot. 
There  was  always  a  new  book,  or  a  new  print,  or  a  new 
flower,  or  a  new  thought  which  the  untiring  mind  had  just 
been  shaping ;  and  there  were  always  and  ever  the  wel 
come  and  the  sympathy  of  a  man  who  loved  men  because 
he  loved  God,  and  who  loved  God  with  an  affection  as 
personal  in  its  nature  as  the  affection  with  which  he  loved 
a  man. 

Year  after  year,  classes  of  young  men  went  away  from 
this  college,  having  for  four  years  looked  on  the  light  of 
this  goodness.  Said  I  not  well  that  few  lives  have  ever 
been  lived  which  have  left  such  a  stamp  on  a  com 
munity  ?  No  man  could  be  so  gross  that  he  would 
utterly  fail  to  feel  its  purity,  no  man  so  stupid  that 
he  could  not  see  its  grandeur  of  self-sacrifice  ;  and  to 
souls  of  a  fibre  fine  enough  to  be  touched  to  the  quick 
by  its  exaltation,  it  was  a  kindling  fire  for  ever. 

In  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  her  married  life,  and 
near  the  end  of  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  her  confinement 
to  her  room,  Mrs.  Dorrance  died.  For  a  few  months 
after  her  death,  her  husband  seemed  like  a  man  sud 
denly  struck  blind  in  the  midst  of  familiar  objects.  He 
seemed  to  be  groping  his  way,  to  have  lost  all  plan  of 
daily  life,  so  tremendous  was  the  change  involved  in  the 
•withdrawal  of  this  perpetual  burden.  Just  as  he  was 
beginning  to  recover  the  natural  tone  of  his  mind,  and 
to  resume  his  old  habits  of  work,  his  son  sickened  and 
died.  The  young  man  had  never  been  strong  :  he  had 
inherited  his  mother's  delicacy  of  constitution,  and  he: 


1 76  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

nervous  excitability  as  well ;  but  he  had  rare  qualities 
of  mind,  and  gave  great  promise  as  a  scholar.  The 
news  of  his  death  was  a  blow  to  every  heart  that  loved 
his  father.  "This  will  kill  the  Parson,"  was  said  by 
sorrowing  voices  far  and  near.  On  the  contrary,  it 
seemed  to  be  the  very  thing  which  cleared  the  atmos 
phere  of  his  whole  life,  and  renewed  his  vigor  and 
energy.  He  rose  up  from  the  terrible  grief  more  majes 
tic  than  ever,  as  some  grand  old  tree,  whose  young 
shoots  and  branches  have  been  torn  away  by  fierce 
storms,  seems  to  lift  its  head  higher  than  before,  and  to 
tower  in  its  stripped  loneliness  above  all  its  fellows. 
All  the  loving  fatherhood  of  his  nature  was  spent  now 
on  the  young  people  of  his  town  ;  and,  by  young  people, 
I  mean  all  between  the  ages  of  four  and  twenty.  There 
was  hardly  a  baby  that  did  not  know  Parson  Dorrance, 
and  stretch  out  its  arms  to  him ;  there  was  hardly  a 
young  man  or  a  young  woman  who  did  not  go  to  him 
with  troubles  or  perplexities.  You  met  him,  one  day, 
drawing  a  huge  sledful  of  children  on  the  snow  ;  an 
other  day,  walking  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  young 
men  and  maidens,  teaching  them  as  he  walked.  They 
all  loved  him  as  a  comrade,  and  reverenced  him  as  a 
teacher.  They  wanted  him  at  their  picnics  ;  and,  when 
ever  he  preached,  they  flocked  to  hear  him.  It  was  a 
significant  thing  that  his  title  of  Professor  was  never 
heard.  From  first  to  last,  he  was  always  called  "  Par 
son  Dorrance  ; "  and  there  were  few  Sundays  on  which 
he  did  not  preach  at  home  or  abroad.  It  was  one  of 
the  forms  of  his  active  benevolence.  If  a  poor  ministei 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  1/7 

broke  down  and  needed  rest,  Parson  Dorrance  preached 
for  him,  for  one  month  or  for  three,  as  the  case  required. 
If  a  little  church  were  without  a  pastor  and  could  not 
find  one,  or  were  in  debt  and  could  not  afford  to  hire 
one,  it  sent  to  ask  Parson  Dorrance  to  supply  the  pulpit : 
and  he  always  went.  Finally,  not  content  with  these 
ordinary  and  established  channels  for  preaching  the 
gospel,  he  sought  out  for  himself  a  new  one.  About 
eight  miles  from  the  village  there  was  a  negro  settlement 
known  as  "  The  Cedars."  It  was  a  wild  place.  Great 
outcropping  ledges  of  granite,  with  big  boulders  toppling 
over,  and  piled  upon  each  other,  and  all  knotted  together 
by  the  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  cedar-trees,  made  the 
place  seem  like  ruins  of  old  fortresses.  There  were 
caves  of  great  depth,  some  of  them  with  two  en 
trances,  in  which,  in  the  time  of  the  fugitive  slave  law, 
many  a  poor  hunted  creature  had  had  safe  refuge. 
Besides  the  cedar-trees,  there  were  sugar-maples  and 
white  birches  ;  and  the  beautiful  rock  ferns  grew  all  over 
the  ledges  in  high  waving  tufts,  almost  as  luxuriantly  as 
if  they  were  in  the  tropics  ;  so  that  the  spot,  wild  and 
fierce  as  it  was,  had  great  beauty.  Many  of  the  fugitive 
slaves  had  built  themselves  huts  here  :  some  lived  in  the 
caves.  A  few  poor  and  vicious  whites  had  joined  them, 
intermarried  with  them,  and  from  these  had  gradually 
grown  up  a  band  of  as  mongrel,  miserable  vagabonds  as 
is  often  seen.  They  were  the  terror  of  the  neighbor 
hood.  Except  for  their  supreme  laziness,  they  would 
have  been  as  dangerous  as  brigands  ;  for  they  were 
utter  outlaws.  No  man  cared  for  them ;  and  they 
8*  i. 


MERCY  PHILBKICK'S   CHOICE. 


cared  for  no  man.  Parson  Dorrance's  heart  yearned 
over  these  poor  Ishmaelites  ;  and  he  determined  to  see 
if  they  were  irreclaimable.  The  first  thing  that  his 
townsmen  knew  of  his  plan  was  his  purchase  of  several 
acres  of  land  near  "  The  Cedars."  He  bought  it  very 
cheap,  because  land  in  that  vicinity  was  held  to  be 
worthless  for  purposes  of  cultivation.  Unless  the  crops 
were  guarded  night  and  day,  they  were  surreptitiously 
harvested  by  foragers  from  "The  Cedars."  Then  it 
was  found  out  that  Parson  Dorrance  was  in  the  habit  of 
driving  over  often  to  look  at  his  new  property.  Gradu 
ally,  the  children  became  used  to  his  presence,  and 
would  steal  out  and  talk  to  him.  Then  he  carried  over 
a  small  microscope,  and  let  them  look  through  it  at 
insects  ;  and  before  long  there  might  have  been  seen,  on 
a  Sunday  afternoon,  a  group  of  twenty  or  thirty  of  the 
outcasts  gathered  round  the  Parson,  while  he  talked  to 
them  as  he  had  talked  to  the  children.  Then  he  told 
them  that,  if  they  would  help,  he  would  build  a  little 
house  on  his  ground,  and  put  some  pictures  and  maps 
in  it  for  them,  and  come  over  every  Sunday  and  talk  to 
them  ;  and  they  set  to  work  with  a  will.  Very  many 
were  the  shrugs  and  smiles  over  "  Parson  Dorrance's 
Chapel  at  '  The  Cedars.'  "  But  the  chapel  was  built  ; 
and  the  Parson  preached  in  it  to  sometimes  seventy-five 
of  the  outlaws.  The  next  astonishment  of  the  P  arson's* 
friends  was  on  finding  him  laying  out  part  of  his  new 
land  in  a  nursery  of  valuable  young  fruit-trees  and 
flowering  shrubs.  Then  they  said,  — 

"  Really,  the  Parson  is  mad  !     Does  he  think  he  has 


MERCY  PHILBRICICS  CHOICE.  1/9 

converted  all  those  negroes,  so  that  they  won't  steal 
fruit  ?  "  And,  when  they  met  the  Parson,  they  laughed 
at  him.  "Come,  come,  Parson,"  they  said,  "this  is 
carrying  the  thing  a  little  too  far,  to  trust  a  fruit  orchard 
over  there  by  '  The  Cedars.' " 

Parson  Dorrance's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  I  know  the  boys  better  than  you  do,"  he  replied 
"  They  will  not  steal  a  single  pear." 

"  I  'd  like  to  wager  you  something  on  that,"  said  tb<* 
friend. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  exactly  take  such  a  wager,"  ai. 
swered  the  Parson,  "  because  you  see  I  know  the  boys 
won't  steal  the  fruit." 

Somewhat  vexed  at  the  obstinacy  of  the  Parson's  faith, 
his  friend  exclaimed,  "  I  'd  like  to  know  how  you  can 
know  that  beforehand  ?  " 

Parson  Dorrance  loved  a  joke. 

"  Neighbor,"  said  he,  "  I  wish  I  could  in  honor  have 
let  you  wager  me  on  that.  I  Ve  given  the  orchard  to 
the  boys.  The  fruit 's  all  their  own." 

This  was  the  man  whom  Mercy  Philbrick  met  early 
In  her  first  summer  at  Penfield.  She  had  heard  him 
preach  twice,  and  had  been  so  greatly  impressed  by  his 
words  and  by  his  face  that  she  longed  very  much  to 
know  him.  She  had  talked  with  Stephen  about  him, 
but  had  found  that  Stephen  did  not  sympathize  at  all 
in  her  enthusiasm.  "The  people  over  at  Danby  aie 
all  crazy  about  him,  I  think,"  said  Stephen.  "  He  is  a 
very  good  man  no  doubt,  and  does  no  end  of  things 
for  *he  college  boys,  that  none  of  the  other  professors 


180  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

do.  But  I  think  he  is  quixotic  and  sentimental ;  and 
all  this  stuff  about  those  niggers  at  the  Cedars  is 
moonshine.  They'd  pick  his  very  pocket,  I  daresay, 
any  day  ;  and  he  'd  never  suspect  them.  I  know  that 
lot  too  well.  The  Lord  himself  couldn't  convert  them." 

"  Oh,  Stephen !  I  think  you  are  wrong,"  replied 
Mercy.  "Parson  Dorrance  is  not  sentimental,  I  am 
sure.  His  sermons  were  clear  and  logical  and  terse,  — 
not  a  waste  word  in  them  ;  and  his  mouth  and  chin  are 
as  strong  as  an  old  Roman's." 

Stephen  looked  earnestly  at  Mercy.  "  Mercy,"  said 
he,  "  I  wonder  if  you  would  love  me  better  if  I  were 
a  preacher,  and  could  preach  clear,  logical,  and  terse 
sermons  ? " 

Mercy  was  impatient.  Already  the  self-centring  of 
Stephen's  mind,  his  instant  reverting  from  most  trains 
of  thought  to  their  possible  bearing  on  her  love  for  him, 
had  begun  to  irritate  her.  It  was  so  foreign  to  her  own 
unconscious,  free-souled  acceptance  and  trust. 

"  Stephen,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say 
such  things.  Besides  seeming  to  imply  a  sort  of  dis 
trust  of  my  love  for  you,  they  are  illogical ;  and  you 
know  there  is  nothing  I  hate  like  bad  logic." 

Stephen  made  no  reply.  The  slightest  approach  to 
a  disagreement  between  Mercy  and  himself  gave  him 
great  pain  and  a  sense  of  terror ;  and  he  took  refuge 
instantly  behind  his  usual  shield  of  silence.  This  also 
was  foreign  to  Mercy's  habit  and  impulse.  When  any 
thing  went  wrong,  ft  was  Mercy's  way  to  speak  out  hon 
estly  to  have  the  matter  set  in  all  its  lights,  until  it 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  l8l 

could  reach  its  true  one.  She  hated  mystery ;  she 
hated  reticence ;  she  hated  every  thing  which  fell  short 
of  full  and  frank  understanding  of  each  other. 

"  Oh,  Stephen ! "  she  used  to  say  often,  "  it  is  bad  enough 
for  us  to  be  forced  into  keeping  things  back  from  the 
world.  Don't  let  us  keep  any  thing  back  from  each  other." 

Poor  Mercy !  the  days  were  beginning  to  be  hard  for 
her.  Her  face  often  wore  a  look  of  perplexed  thought 
which  was  very  new  to  it.  Still  she  never  wavered  for  a 
moment  in  her  devotion  to  Stephen.  If  she  had  stood 
acknowledged  before  all  the  world  as  his  wife,  she 
could  not  have  been  any  more  single-hearted  and  un 
questioning  in  her  loyalty. 

It  was  at  a  picnic  in  which  the  young  people  of  both 
Danby  and  Penfield  had  joined  that  Mercy  met  Parson 
Dorrance.  No  such  gathering  was  ever  thought  com 
plete  without  the  Parson's  presence.  Again  and  again 
one  might  hear  it  said  in  the  preliminary  discussion  : 
"  But  we  must  find  out  first  what  day  Parson  Dorrance 
can  go.  It  won't  be  any  fun  without  him  !  " 

Until  Mercy  came,  Stephen  White  had  rarely  been 
asked  to  the  pleasurings  of  the  young  people  in  Pen- 
field.  There  was  a  general  impression  that  he  did  not 
care  for  things  of  that  sort.  His  manner  was  wrongly 
interpreted,  however :  it  was  really  only  the  constraint 
born  of  the  feeling  that  he  was  out  of  his  place,  or  that 
nobody  wanted  him.  He  watched  in  silent  wonder  the 
cordial  way  in  which,  it  seemed  to  him,  that  Mercy 
talked  with  everybody,  and  made  everybody  fee}  happy. 
"  Oh,  Mercy,  how  can  you ! "  he  would  exclaim  :  "  I  feel  so 
dumb,  even  while  I  am  talking  the  fastest!  " 


182  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

"  Why,  so  do  I,  Stephen,"  said  Mercy.  "  I  am  often 
racking  my  brains  to  think  what  I  shall  say  next.  Half 
the  people  I  meet  are  profoundly  uninteresting  to  me  ; 
and  half  of  the  other  half  paralyze  me  at  first  sight,  and 
I  feel  like  such  a  hypocrite  all  the  time ;  but,  oh,  what 
a  pleasure  it  is  to  talk  with  the  other  quarter !  " 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Stephen,  "  you  look  so  happy  and  ab 
sorbed  sometimes  that  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  you  had 
forgotten  me  altogether." 

"  Silly  boy !  "  laughed  Mercy.  "  Do  you  want  me  to 
prove  to  you  by  a  long  face  that  I  am  remembering 
you  ?  —  Darling,"  she  added,  "  at  those  very  times  when 
you  see  me  seem  so  absorbed  and  happy  in  company, 
I  am  most  likely  thinking  about  the  last  time  you  looked 
into  my  face,  or  the  next  time  you  will." 

And  for  once  Stephen  was  satisfied. 

The  picnic  at  which  Mercy  met  Parson  Dorrance  had 
taken  place  on  a  mountain  some  six  miles  south-west  of 
Penfield.  This  mountain  was  the  western  extremity  of 
the  range  of  which  I  have  before  spoken ;  and  at  its 
base  ran  the  river  which  made  the  meadow-lands  of 
Penfield  and  Danby  so  beautiful.  Nowhere  in  America 
is  there  a  lovelier  picture  than  these  meadow-lands,  seen 
from  the  top  of  this  mountain  which  overhangs  them 
The  mountain  is  only  about  twenty-five  hundred  feet 
high :  therefore,  one  loses  no  smallest  shade  of  color 
in  the  view ;  even  the  difference  between  the  green  of 
broom-corn  and  clover  records  itself  to  the  eye  looking 
down  from  the  mountain-top.  As  far  as  one  can  see  to 
northward  the  valley  stretches  in  bands  and  belts  and 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  183 

spaces  of  varied  tints  of  green.  The  river  winds  through 
it  in  doubling  curves,  and  looks  from  the  height  like  a 
line  of  silver  laid  in  loops  on  an  enamelled  surface.  To 
the  east  and  the  west  rise  the  river  terraces,  higher  and 
higher,  becoming,  at  last,  lofty  and  abrupt  hills  at  the 
horizon. 

When  Parson  Dorrance  was  introduced  to  Mercy,  she 
was  alone  on  a  spur  of  rock  which  jutted  out  from  the 
mountain-side  and  overhung  the  valley.  She  had  wan 
dered  away  from  the  gay  and  laughing  company,  and 
was  sitting  alone,  absorbed  and  almost  saddened  by  the 
unutterable  beauty  of  the  landscape  below.  Stephen 
had  missed  her,  but  had  not  yet  dared  to  go  in  search 
of  her.  He  imposed  on  himself  a  very  rigid  law  in  pub 
lic,  and  never  permitted  himself  to  do  or  say  or  even 
look  any  thing  which  could  suggest  to  others  the  inti 
macy  of  their  relations.  Mercy  sometimes  felt  this  so 
keenly  that  she  reproached  him.  "  I  can't  see  why  you 
should  think  it  necessary  to  avoid  me  so,"  she  would 
say.  "  You  treat  me  exactly  as  if  I  were  only  a  common 
acquaintance." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  wish  to  have  every  one  be 
lieve  you  to  be,  Mercy,"  Stephen  would  reply  with  em 
phasis.  "  That  is  the  only  safe  course.  Once  let  people 
begin  to  associate  our  names  together,  and  there  is  nc 
limit  to  the  things  they  would  say.  We  cannot  be  too 
careful.  That  is  one  thing  you  must  let  me  be  the  judge 
of,  dear.  You  cannot  understand  it  as  I  do*  So  long 
as  I  am  without  the  right  or  the  power  to  protect  you, 
my  first  duty  is  to  shield  you  from  any  or  all  gossip 
linking  our  names  together." 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


Mercy  felt  the  justice  of  this  ;  and  yet  to  her  there 
seemed  also  a  sort  of  injustice  involved  in  it.  She  felt 
stung  often,  and  wounded,  in  spite  of  all  reasoning  with 
herself  that  she  had  no  cause  to  do  so,  that  Stephen 
was  but  doing  right.  So  inevitable  and  inextricable  are 
pains  and  dilemmas  when  once  we  enter  on  the  paths 
of  concealment. 

Parson  Dorrance  was  introduced  to  Mercy  by  Mrs. 
Hunter,  a  young  married  woman,  who  was  fast  becoming 
her  most  intimate  friend.  Mrs.  Hunter's  father  had 
been  settled  as  the  minister  of  a  church  in  Penfield,  in 
the  same  year  that  Parson  Dorrance  had  taken  his  pro 
fessorship  in  Danby,  and  the  two  men  had  been  close 
friends  from  that  day  till  the  day  of  Mr.  Adams's  death. 
Little  Lizzy  Adams  had  been  Parson  Dorrance's  pet 
when  she  lay  in  her  cradle.  He  had  baptized  her  ;  and, 
when  she  came  to  woman's  estate,  he  had  performed 
the  ceremony  which  gave  her  in  marriage  to  Luke  Hun 
ter,  the  most  promising  young  lawyer  in  the  county. 

She  had  always  called  Parson  Dorrance  her  uncle, 
and  her  house  in  Penfield  was  his  second  home.  It 
had  been  Mrs.  Hunter's  wish  for  a  long  time  that  he 
should  see  and  know  her  new  friend,  Mercy.  But  Mercy 
was  very  shy  of  seeing  the  man  for  whom  she  felt  such 
reverence  and  had  steadily  refused  to  meet  him.  It  was 
therefore  with  a  certain  air  of  triumphant  satisfaction 
that  Mrs.  Hunter  led  Parson  Dorrance  to  the  rock  where 
Mercy  was  sitting,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  There,  Uncle  Dorrance  !  here  she  is  !  " 

Parson  Dorrance  did  not  wait  for  any  farther  intro 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  1?5 

duction  ;  but,  holding  out  both  his  hands  to  Mercy,  he 
said  in  a  deep,  mellow  voice,  and  with  a  tone  which  had 
a  benediction  in  it, — 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Philbrick.  My 
child  Lizzy  here  has  been  telling  me  about  you  for  a 
long  time.  You  know  I  'm  the  same  as  a  father  to  her  j 
so  you  can't  escape  me,  if  you  are  going  to  be  her  friend." 

Mercy  looked  up  half-shamefacedly  and  half-archly, 
and  replied, — 

"  It  was  not  that  I  wanted  to  escape  you ;  but  I  wanted 
you  to  escape  me."  She  perceived  that  the  Parson  had 
been  told  of  her  refusals  to  meet  him.  Then  they  all 
sat  down  again  on  the  jutting  rock  ;  and  Mercy,  leaning 
forward  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees,  fixed  her 
eyes  on  Parson  Dorrance's  face,  and  drank  in  every  word 
that  he  said.  He  had  a  rare  faculty  of  speaking  with 
the  greatest  simplicity,  both  of  language  and  manner. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  at  ease  in  his  presence. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  tell  him  all  that  he  asked.  Be 
fore  you  knew  it,  you  were  speaking  to  him  of  your  own 
feelings,  tastes,  the  incidents  of  your  life,  your  plans  and 
purposes,  as  if  he  were  a  species  of  father  confessor. 
He  questioned  you  so  gently,  yet  with  such  an  air  of 
right ;  he  listened  so  observantly  and  sympathetically. 
He  did  not  treat  Mercy  Philbrick  as  a  stranger ;  for 
Mrs.  Hunter  had  told  him  already  all  she  knew  of  her 
friend's  life,  and  had  showed  him  several  of  Mercy's 
poems,  which  had  surprised  him  much  by  their  beauty, 
and  still  more  by  their  condensation  of  thought.  They 
seemed  to  him  almost  more  masculine  than  feminine  • 


1 86  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

and  he  had  unconsciously  anticipated  that  in  seeing 
Mercy  he  would  see  a  woman  of  masculine  type.  He 
was  greatly  astonished.  He  could  not  associate  this 
slight,  fair  girl,  with  a  child's  honesty  and  appeal  in  her 
eyes,  with  the  forceful  words  he  had  read  from  her  pen. 
He  pursued  his  conversation  with  her  eagerly,  seeking 
to  discover  the  secret  of  her  style,  to  trace  back  the 
poetry  from  its  flower  to  its  root.  It  was  an  astonish 
ment  to  Mercy  to  find  herself  talking  about  her  own 
verses  with  this  stranger  whom  she  so  reverenced.  But 
she  felt  at  once  as  if  she  had  sat  at  his  feet  all  her  life, 
and  had  no  right  to  withhold  any  thing  from  her  master. 

"  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Philbrick,  you  have  read  the  earlier 
English  poets  a  great  deal,  have  you  not  ?  "  he  said. 
"  I  infer  so  from  the  style  of  some  of  your  poems." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Mercy,  in  honest  vehemence. 
"  I  have  read  hardly  any  thing,  Mr.  Dorrance.  I  know 
Herbert  a  little ;  but  most  of  the  old  English  poets  I 
have  never  even  seen.  I  have  never  lived  where  there 
were  any  books  till  now." 

"  You  love  Wordsworth,  I  hope,"  he  said  inquiringly. 

Mercy  turned  very  red,  and  answered  in  a  tone  of 
desperation,  "  I  Ve  tried  to.  Mr.  Allen  said  I  must. 
But  I  can't.  I  don't  care  any  thing  about  him."  And 
she  looked  at  the  Parson  with  the  air  of  a  culprit  who 
has  confessed  a  terrible  misdemeanor. 

"  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  you  have  not  then  reached  the 
point  in  the  journey  at  which  one  sees  him.  It  is  only 
a  question  of  time :  one  comes  of  a  sudden  into  the 
presence  of  Wordsworth,  as  a  traveller  finds  some  day, 


MERCY  PUILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  1 87 

upon  a  well-known  road,  a  grand  cathedral,  into  which 
he  turns  aside  and  worships,  and  wonders  how  it  hap 
pens  that  he  never  before  saw  it.  You  will  tell  me  some 
day  that  this  has  happened  to  you.  It  is  only  a  ques 
tion  of  time." 

Just  as  Parson  Dorrance  pronounced  the  last  words, 
they  were  echoed  by  a  laughing  party  who  had  come  in 
search  of  him.  "  Yes,  yes,  only  a  question  of  time," 
they  said  ;  "  and  it  is  our  time  now,  Parson.  You  must 
come  with  us.  No  monopoly  of  the  Parson  allowed, 
Mrs.  Hunter,"  and  they  carried  him  off,  joining  hands 
around  him  and  singing  the  old  college  song,  "  Gaudea- 
mus  igitur." 

Stephen,  who  had  joined  eagerly  in  the  proposal  to  go 
in  search  of  the  Parson,  remained  behind,  and  made  a 
sign  to  Mercy  to  stay  with  him.  Sitting  down  by  her 
side,  he  said  gloomily,  — 

"  What  were  you  talking  about  when  we  came  up  ? 
Your  face  looked  as  if  you  were  listening  to  music." 

"About  Wordsworth,"  said  Mercy.  "Parson  Dor 
rance  said  such  a  beautiful  thing  about  him.  It  was 
like  music,  like  far  off  music,"  and  she  repeated  it  to 
Stephen.  "  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  reach  that  cathe 
dral,"  she  added. 

"  Well,  I  've  never  reached  it,"  said  Stephen.  "  and 
I  'm  a  good  deal  older  than  you.  I  think  two  thirds  of 
Wordsworth's  poetry  is  imbecile,  absolutely  imbecile." 

Mercy  was  too  much  under  the  spell  of  Parson  Dor- 
ranee's  recent  words  to  sympathize  in  this  ;  but  she  had 
already  learned  to  avoid  dissent  from  Stephen's  opinions, 


1 88  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

and  she  made  no  reply.  They  were  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  a  great  fissure  in  the  mountain.  Some  terrible  con 
vulsion  must  have  shaken  the  huge  mass  to  its  centre, 
to  have  made  such  a  rift.  At  the  bottom  ran  a  stream, 
looking  from  this  height  like  little  more  than  a  silver 
thread.  Shrubs  and  low  flowering  things  were  waving 
all  the  way  down  the  sides  of  the  abyss,  as  if  nature  had 
done  her  best  to  fill  up  the  ugly  wound.  Many  feet 
below  them,  on  a  projecting  rock,  waved  one  little  white 
blossom,  so  fragile  it  seemed  as  if  each  swaying  motion 
in  the  breeze  must  sever  it  from  the  stem. 

"  Oh,  see  the  dainty,  brave  little  thing !  "  exclaimed 
Mercy.  "  It  looks  as  if  it  were  almost  alone  in  space." 

"  I  will  get  it  for  you,"  said  Stephen  ;  and,  before 
Mercy  could  speak  to  restrain  him,  he  was  far  down  the 
precipice.  With  a  low  ejaculation  of  terror,  Mercy 
closed  her  eyes.  She  would  not  look  on  Stephen  in 
such  peril.  She  did  not  move  nor  open  her  eyes,  until 
he  stood  by  her  side,  exclaiming,  "  Why,  Mercy !  my 
darling,  do  not  look  so  !  There  was  no  danger,"  and  he 
laid  the  little  plant  in  her  hand.  She  looked  at  it  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  — 

"  Oh,  Stephen !  to  risk  your  life  for  such  a  thing  as 
that !  The  sight  of  it  will  always  make  me  shudder." 

"  Then  I  will  throw  it  away,"  said  Stephen,  endeavoring 
to  take  it  from  her  hand ;  but  she  held  it  only  the  tighter, 
and  whispered,  — 

"  No  !  oh,  what  a  moment !  what  a  moment !  I  shall 
keep  this  flower  as  long  as  I  live  !  "  And  she  did,  —  kept 
it  wrapped  in  a  paper,  on  which  were  written  the  follow 
ing  lines  :  — 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  189 


A   MOMENT. 

Lightly  as  an  insect  floating 

In  the  sunny  summer  air, 
Waved  one  tiny  snow-white  blossom, 
From  a  hidden  crevice  growing, 

Dainty,  fragile-leaved,  and  fair, 
Where  great  rocks  piled  up  like  mountains, 
Well-nigh  to  the  shining  heavens, 

Rose  precipitous  and  bare, 
With  a  pent-up  river  rushing, 

Foaming  as  at  boiling  heat 

Wildly,  madly,  at  their  feet. 

Hardly  with  a  ripple  stirring 

The  sweet  silence  by  its  tone, 
Fell  a  woman's  whisper  lightly,  — 
"  Oh,  the  dainty,  dauntless  blossom  ! 

What  deep  secret  of  its  own 
Keeps  it  joyous  and  light-hearted, 
O'er  this  dreadful  chasm  swinging, 

Unsupported  and  alone, 
With  no  help  or  cheer  from  kindred  ? 

Oh,  the  dainty,  dauntless  thing, 

Bravest  creature  of  the  spring  ! " 

Then  the  woman  saw  her  lover, 

For  one  instant  saw  his  face, 
Down  the  precipice  slow  sinking, 
Looking  up  at  her,  and  sending 

Through  the  shimmering,  sunny  space 
Look  of  love  and  subtle  triumph, 
As  he  plucked  the  tiny  blossom 

In  its  airy,  dizzy  place,  — 
Plucked  it,  smiling,  as  if  danger 

Were  not  danger  to  the  hand 

Of  true  lover  in  love's  land. 


190  MERCY  PUILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

In  her  hands  her  face  she  buried, 

At  her  heart  the  blood  grew  chill ; 
In  that  one  brief  moment  crowded 
The  whole  anguish  of  a  lifetime, 

Made  her  every  pulse  stand  still. 
Like  one  dead  she  sat  and  waited, 
Listening  to  the  stirless  silence, 

Ages  in  a  second,  till, 
Lightly  leaping,  came  her  lover, 

And,  still  smiling,  laid  the  sweet 

Snow-white  blossom  at  her  feet. 

"  O  my  love  !  my  love !  "  she  shuddered, 
"  Bloomed  that  flower  by  Death's  own  spell  ? 

Was  thy  life  so  little  moment, 

Life  and  love  for  that  one  blossom 
Wert  thou  ready  thus  to  sell  ? 

0  my  precious  love  !  for  ever 

1  shall  keep  this  faded  token 

Of  the  hour  which  came  to  tell, 
In  such  voice  I  scarce  dared  listen, 
How  thy  life  to  me  had  grown 
So  much  dearer  than  my  own!" 

On  their  way  home  from  the  picnic  late  in  the  after 
noon,  they  came  at  the  base  of  the  mountain  to  a  beau 
tiful  spot  where  two  little  streams  met.  The  two  streams 
were  in  sight  for  a  long  distance  :  one  shining  in  a  green 
meadow ;  the  other  leaping  and  foaming  down  a  gorge 
in  the  mountain-side.  A  little  inn,  which  was  famous 
for  its  beer,  stood  on  the  meadow  space,  bounded  by 
these  two  streams  ;  and  the  picnic  party  halted  before  its 
door.  While  the  white  foamy  glasses  were  clinked  and 
tossed,  Mercy  ran  down  the  narrow  strip  of  land  at  the 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  191 

end  of  which  the  streams  met.  A  little  thicket  of  wil 
lows  grew  there.  Standing  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
shore,  Mercy  broke  off  a  willow  wand,  and  dipped  it  to 
right  in  the  meadow  stream,  to  the  left  in  the  stream 
from  the  gorge.  Then  she  brought  it  back  wet  and 
dripping. 

"  It  has  drank  of  two  waters,"  she  cried,  holding  it 
up.  "  Oh,  you  ought  to  see  how  wonderful  it  is  to  watch 
their  coming  together  at  that  point  1  For  a  little  while 
you  can  trace  the  mountain  water  by  itself  in  the  other : 
then  it  is  all  lost,  and  they  pour  on  together."  This 
picture,  also,  she  set  in  a  frame  of  verse  one  day,  and 
gave  it  to  Stephen. 

On  a  green  point  of  sunny  land, 

Hemmed  in  by  mountains  stern  and  high, 

I  stood  alone  as  dreamers  stand, 
And  watched  two  streams  that  hurried  by. 

One  ran  to  east,  and  one  to  south ; 

They  leaped  and  sparkled  in  the  sun; 
They  foamed  like  racers  at  the  mouth, 

And  laughed  as  if  the  race  were  won. 

Just  on  the  point  of  sunny  land 
A  low  bush  stood,  like  umpire  fair, 

Waving  green  banners  in  its  hand, 
As  if  the  victory  to  declare. 

Ah,  victory  won,  but  not  by  race  ! 

Ah,  victory  by  a  sweeter  name  1 
To  blend  for  ever  in  embrace, 

Unconscious,  swift,  the  two  streams  came. 


I92  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

One  instant,  separate,  side  by  side 
The  shining  currents  seemed  to  pour; 

Then  swept  in  one  tumultuous  tide, 
Swifter  and  stronger  than  before. 

0  stream  to  south  !  O  stream  to  east ! 
Which  bears  the  other,  who  shall  see  ? 

Which  one  is  most,  which  one  is  least, 
In  this  surrendering  victory  ? 

To  that  green  point  of  sunny  land, 

Hemmed  in  by  mountains  stern  and  high, 

1  called  my  love,  and,  hand  in  hand, 

We  watched  the  streams  that  hurried  by. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  193 


CHAPTER   IX. 

TT  was  a  turning-point  in  Mercy's  life  when  she  met 
-"-  Parson  Dorrance.  Here  at  last  was  a  man  who 
had  strength  enough  to  influence  her,  culture  enough  to 
teach  her,  and  the  firm  moral  rectitude  which  her  nature 
so  inexorably  demanded.  During  the  first  few  weeks  of 
their  acquaintance,  Mercy  was  conscious  of  an  insa 
tiable  desire  to  be  in  his  presence :  it  was  an  intel 
lectual  and  a  moral  thirst.  Nothing  could  be  farther 
removed  from  the  absorbing  consciousness  which  pas 
sionate  love  feels  of  its  object,  than  was  this  sentiment 
she  felt  toward  Parson  Dorrance.  If  he  had  been  a 
being  from  another  planet,  it  could  not  have  been  more 
so.  In  fact,  it  was  very  much  as  if  another  planet  had 
been  added  to  her  world,  —  a  planet  which  threw  bril 
liant  light  into  every  dark  corner  of  this  one.  She 
questioned  him  eagerly.  Her  old  doubts  and  perplex 
ities,  which  Mr.  Allen's  narrower  mind  had  been  un 
able  to  comprehend  or  to  help,  were  now  set  at  rest 
and  cleared  up  by  a  spiritual  vision  far  keener  than  her 
own.  Her  mind  was  fed  and  trained  by  an  intellect  so 
much  stronger  than  her  own  that  it  compelled  her  as 
sent  and  her  allegiance.  She  came  to  him  almost  as  a 
9  M 


194  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

maiden,  in  the  ancient  days  of  Greece,  would  have  gone 
to  the  oracle  of  the  holiest  shrine.  Parson  Dorrance  in 
his  turn  was  as  much  impressed  by  Mercy ;  but  he  was 
never  able  to  see  in  her  simply  the  pupil,  the  questioner. 
To  him  she  was  also  a  warm  and  glowing  personality, 
a  young  and  beautiful  woman.  Parson  Dorrance's  hair 
was  white  as  snow  ;  but  his  eyes  were  as  keen  and  dark 
as  in  his  youth,  his  step  as  firm,  and  his  pulse  as  quick. 
Long  before  he  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  he  might 
have  known,  if  he  had  taken  counsel  of  his  heart,  that 
Mercy  was  becoming  to  him  the  one  woman  in  the 
world.  There  was  always  this  peculiarity  in  Mercy's 
influence  upon  all  who  came  to  love  her.  She  was  so 
unique  and  incalculable  a  person  that  she  made  all 
other  women  seem  by  comparison  with  her  monotonous 
and  wearying.  Intimacy  with  her  had  a  subtle  flavor 
to  it,  by  which  other  flavors  were  dulled.  The  very 
impersonality  of  her  enthusiasms  and  interests,  her 
capacity  for  looking  on  a  person  for  the  time  being 
merely  as  a  representative  or  mouth-piece,  so  to  speak, 
of  thoughts,  of  ideas,  of  narrations,  was  one  of  her 
strongest  charms.  By  reason  of  this,  the  world  was 
often  unjust  to  her  in  its  comments  on  her  manner,  on 
her  relations  with  men.  The  world  more  than  once 
accused  her  uncharitably  of  flirting.  But  the  men  with 
whom  she  had  friendships  knew  better  ;  and  now  and 
then  a  woman  had  the  insight  to  be  just  to  her,  to  see 
that  she  was  quite  capable  of  regarding  a  human  being 
as  objectively  as  she  would  a  flower  or  a  mountain  or  a 
star.  The  blending  of  this  trait  in  her  with  the  strong 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  1 95 

capacity  she  had  for  loving  individuals  was  singular  j 
not  more  so,  perhaps,  than  the  blending  of  the  poetic 
temperament  with  the  active,  energetic,  and  practical 
side  of  her  nature. 

It  was  not  long  before  her  name  began  to  be  men 
tioned  in  connection  with  Parson  Dorrance's,  by  the  busy 
tongues  which  are  always  in  motion  in  small  villages. 
It  was  not  long,  moreover,  before  a  thought  and  a  hope, 
in  which  both  these  names  were  allied,  crept  into  the 
heart  of  Lizzy  Hunter. 

"  Oh,"  she  thought,  "  if  only  Uncle  Dorrance  would 
marry  Mercy,  how  happy  I  should  be,  she  would  be, 
every  one  would  be." 

No  suspicion  of  the  relation  in  which  Mercy  stood  to 
Stephen  White  had  ever  crossed  Mrs.  Hunter's  mind. 
She  had  never  known  Stephen  unttt  recently ;  and  his 
manner  towards  her  had  been  from  th^  outset  so  chilled 
and  constrained  by  his  unconscious  jealousy  of  every 
new  friend  Mercy  made,  that  she  h.»d  set  him  down 
in  her  own  mind  as  a  dull  and  surly  *»an,  and  rarely 
thought  of  him.  And,  as  one  of  poor  Mercy's  many 
devices  for  keeping  up  with  her  conscience  a  semblance 
of  honesty  in  the  matter  of  Stephen  was  the  entire 
omission  of  all  reference  to  him  in  her  conversation, 
nothing  occurred  to  remind  her  friends  of  him.  Parson 
Dorrance,  indeed,  had  said  to  her  one  day,  — 

"  You  never  speak  of  Mr.  White,  Mercy.  I*  he  an 
agreeable  and  kind  landlord  ? " 

Mercy  started,  looked  bewilderedly  in  the  Parson's 
face,  and  repeated  his  words  mechanically,  — 


196  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

"  Landlord  ?  "  Then  recollecting  herself,  she  ex 
claimed,  "Oh,  yes!  we  do  pay  rent  to  him;  but  it  was 
paid  for  the  whole  year  in  advance,  and  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  it." 

Parson  Dorrance  had  had  occasion  to  distrust  Ste 
phen's  father,  and  he  distrusted  the  son.  "  Advance  ? 
advance  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why  did  you  do  that, 
child?  That  was  all  wrong." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Mercy,  eagerly.  "  I  had  the  money, 
and  it  made  no  difference  to  me ;  and  Mr.  Allen  told 
me  that  Mr.  White  was  in  a  great  strait  for  money,  so  I 
was  very  glad  to  give  it  to  him.  Such  a  mother  is  a  ter 
rible  burden  on  a  young  man,"  and  Mercy  continued 
talking  about  Mrs.  White,  until  she  had  effectually  led 
the  conversation  away  from  Stephen. 

When  Lizzy  Hunter  first  began  to  recognize  the  pos 
sibility  of  her  Uncle  Dorrance's  loving  her  dear  friend 
Mercy,  she  found  it  very  hard  to  refrain,  in  her  talks 
with  Mercy,  from  all  allusions  to  such  a  possibility.  But 
she  knew  instinctively  that  any  such  suggestion  would 
terrify  Mercy,  and  make  her  withdraw  herself  alto 
gether.  So  she  contented  herself  with  talking  to  her 
in  what  she  thought  were  safe  generalizations  on  the 
subject  of  marriage.  Lizzy  Hunter  was  one  of  the  cling- 
ing.  caressing,  caressable  women,  who  nestle  into  men's 
affections  as  kittens  nestle  into  warm  corners,  and  from 
very  much  the  same  motives,  —  love  of  warmth  and  shel 
ter,  and  of  being  fondled.  To  all  these  instincts  in 
Lizzy,  however,  were  added  a  really  beautiful  motherli- 
ness  and  great  loyalty  of  affection.  If  the  world  held 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  197 

more  such  women,  there  would  be  more  happy  children 
and  contented  husbands. 

"  Mercy,"  said  she  one  afternoon,  earnestly,  "  Mercy, 
it  makes  me  perfectly  wretched  to  have  you  say  so  con 
fidently  that  you  will  never  be  married.  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  about :  you  don't  realize  in  the 
least  what  it  is  for  a  woman  to  live  alone  and  homeless 
to  the  end  of  her  days." 

"  I  never  need  be  homeless,  dear,"  said  Mercy.  "  I 
shall  always  have  a  home,  even  after  mother  is  no  longer 
with  me ;  and  I  am  afraid  that  is  very  near,  she  has  failed 
so  much  this  past  summer.  But,  even  if  I  were  all  alone, 
I  should  still  keep  my  home." 

"  A  house  isn't  a  home,  Mercy ! "  exclaimed  Lizzy. 
Of  course  you  can  always  be  comfortable,  so  far  as  a 
roof  and  food  go  towards  comfort." 

"  And  that 's  a  great  way,  my  Lizzy,"  interrupted 
Mercy,  laughing,  —  "a  great  way.  No  husband  could 
possibly  take  the  place  of  them,  could  he  ? " 

"Now,  Mercy,  don't  talk  so.  You  know  very  well 
what  I  mean,"  replied  Lizzy.  "  It  is  so  forlorn  for 
a  woman  not  to  have  anybody  need  her,  not  to  have 
anybody  to  love  her  more  than  he  loves  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  not  to  have  anybody  to  love  herself.  Oh, 
Mercy,  I  don't  see  how  any  woman  lives  without  it !  " 

The  tears  came  into  Mercy's  eyes.  There  were  depths 
of  lovingness  in  her  soul  of  which  a  woman  like  Lizzy 
could  not  even  dream.  But  she  spoke  in  a  resolute 
tone,  and  she  spoke  very  honestly,  too,  when  she 
said, — 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICF- 


"Well,  I  don't  see  how  any  woman  can  help  living 
very  well  without  it,  if  it  doesn't  come  to  her.  I  don't 
see  how  any  human  being  —  man  or  woman,  single  or 
married  —  can  help  being  glad  to  be  alive  under  any 
conditions.  It  is  such  a  glorious  thing  to  have  a  soul 
and  a  body,  and  to  get  the  most  out  of  them.  Just  from 
the  purely  selfish  point  of  view,  it  seems  to  me  a  delight 
to  live  ;  and  when  you  look  at  it  from  a  higher  point, 
and  think  how  much  each  human  being  can  do  for  those 
around  him,  why,  then  it  is  sublime.  Look  at  Parson 
Dorrance,  Lizzy  !  Just  think  of  the  sum  of  the  happi 
ness  that  man  has  created  in  this  world!  He  isn't 
lonely.  He  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Yes,  he  is,  too,  —  I  know-  he  is,"  said  Lizzy,  impetu 
ously.  "The  very  way  he  takes  up  my  children  and 
hugs  them  and  kisses  them  shows  that  he  longs  for  a 
home  and  children  of  his  own." 

"  I  think  not,"  replied  Mercy.  "  It  is  all  part  of  the 
perpetual  overflow  of  his  benevolence.  He  can't  pass 
by  a  living  creature,  if  it  is  only  a  dog,  without  a  desire  to 
give  it  a  moment's  happiness.  Of  happiness  for  himself 
he  never  thinks,  because  he  is  on  a  plane  above  happi 
ness,  —  a  plane  of  perpetual  joy."  Mercy  hesitated, 
paused,  and  then  went  on,  "  I  don't  mean  to  be  irrever 
ent,  but  I  could  never  think  of  his  needing  personal 
ministrations  to  his  own  happiness,  any  more  than  I 
could  think  of  God's  needing  them.  I  think  he  is  on  a 
plane  as  absolutely  above  such  needs  as  God  is.  Not 
so  high  above,  but  as  absolutely." 

"  How  are  you  so  sure  God  is  above  it  ?  "  said  Lizzy 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  199 

timidly.  "  I  can't  conceive  of  God's  being  happy  if 
nobody  loved  him." 

Mercy  was  startled  by  these  words  from  Lizzy,  who 
rarely  questioned  and  never  philosophized.  She  opened 
her  lips  to  reply  with  a  hasty  reiteration  of  her  first 
sentiment,  but  the  words  died  even  before  they  were 
spoken,  arrested  by  her  sudden  consciousness  of  the  pos 
sibility  of  a  grand  truth  underlying  Lizzy's  instinct.  If 
that  were  so,  did  it  not  lie  out  far  beyond  every  fact  in 
life,  include  and  control  them  all,  as  the  great  truth  of 
gravitation  outlies  and  embraces  the  physical  universe  ? 
Did  God  so  need  as  well  as  so  love  the  world,  that  he 
gave  his  only  begotten  Son  for  it?  Is  this  what  it 
meant  to  be  "  one  with  God  "  ?  Then,  if  the  great,  illim 
itable  heart  of  God  thus  yearns  for  the  love  of  his  creat 
ures,  the  greater  the  heart  of  a  human  being,  the  more 
must  he  yearn  for  a  fulness  of  love,  a  completion  of  the 
cycle  of  bonds  and  joys  for  which  he  was  made.  From 
these  simple  words  of  a  loving  woman's  heart  had 
flashed  a  great  light  into  Mercy's  comprehension  of 
God.  She  was  silent  for  some  moments  ;  then  she  said 
solemnly,  — 

"  That  was  a  great  thought  you  had  then,  Lizzy.  I 
never  saw  it  in  that  light  before.  I  shall  never  forget 
it.  Perhaps  you  are  right  about  the  Parson,  too.  I 
wonder  if  there  is  any  thing  he  does  long  for  ?  If  there 
is,  I  would  die  to  give  it  to  him,  —  I  know  that." 

It  was  very  near  Lizzy's  lips  to  say,  "  If  you  would 
live  to  give  it  to  him,  it  would  be  more  to  the  purpose, 
perhaps  ; "  but  she  wisely  forbore,  and  they  parted  in 


200  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

silence,  Mercy  absorbed  in  thinking  of  this  new  view  ol 
God's  relation  to  man,  and  Lizzy  hoping  that  Mercy  waj 
thinking  of  Parson  Dorrance's  need  of  a  greater  happi 
ness  than  he  possessed. 

As  Mercy's  circle  of  friends  widened,  and  her  inter 
ests  enlarged  and  deepened,  her  relation  to  Stephen 
became  at  once  easier  and  harder  :  easier,  because  she 
no  longer  spent  so  many  hours  alone  in  perplexed  medi 
tation  as  to  the  possible  wrong  in  it ;  harder,  because 
he  was  frequently  unreasonable,  jealous  of  the  pleasure 
that  he  saw  she  found  in  others,  jealous  of  the  pleasure 
she  gave  to  others, — jealous,  in  short,  of  every  thing  iu 
which  he  was  not  her  centre.  Mercy  was  very  patienf 
with  him.  She  loved  him  unutterably.  She  never  for 
got  for  an  instant  the  quiet  heroism  with  which  he  bore 
his  hard  life.  As  the  months  had  gone  on,  she  had  grad 
ually  established  a  certain  kindly  familiarity  with  his 
mother ;  going  in  often  to  see  her,  taking  her  little  gifts 
of  flowers  or  fruit,  and  telling  her  of  all  little  incidents 
which  might  amuse  her.  She  seemed  to  herself  in  this 
way  to  be  doing  a  little  towards  sharing  Stephen's  bur 
den  ;  and  she  also  felt  a  certain  bond  to  the  woman 
who,  being  Stephen's  mother,  ought  to  have  been  hers 
by  adoption.  The  more  she  saw  of  Mrs.  White's  tyran 
nical,  exacting  nature,  the  more  she  yearned  over  Ste 
phen.  Her  first  feeling  of  impatience  with  him,  of 
resentment  at  the  seeming  want  of  manliness  in  such 
subjection,  had  long  ago  worn  away.  She  saw  that 
there  were  but  two  courses  for  him,  —  either  to  leave  th» 
house,  or  to  buy  a  semblance  of  peace  at  any  cost. 


MERCY  PIJILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  2OI 

"  Flesh  and  blood  can't  stand  up  agin  Mis'  White," 
said  Marty  one  day,  in  an  irrepressible  confidence  to 
Mercy.  "  An'  the  queerest  thing  is,  that  she  '11  never 
let  go  on  you.  There  ain't  nothin'  to  hender  my  goin' 
away  any  day,  an'  there  hain't  been  for  twenty  year;  but 
she  sez  I  'm  to  stay  till  she  dies,  an'  I  don't  make  no 
doubt  I  shall.  It 's  Mister  Stephen  I  stay  for,  though, 
after  all,  more  'n  't  is  her.  I  don't  believe  the  Lord  ever 
made  such  a  man." 

Mercy's  cheeks  would  burn  after  such  a  talk  as  this ; 
and  she  would  lavish  upon  Stephen  every  device  of  love 
and  cheer  which  she  could  invent,  to  atone  to  him  by 
hours,  if  possible,  for  the  misery  of  days. 

But  the  hours  were  few  and  far  between.  Stephen's 
days  were  filled  with  work,  and  his  evenings  were  his 
mother's.  Only  after  she  slept  did  he  have  freedom. 
Just  as  soon  as  it  was  safe  for  him  to  leave  the  house, 
he  flew  to  Mercy ;  but,  oh,  how  meagre  and  pitiful  did 
the  few  moments  seem  ! 

"  Hardly  long  enough  to  realize  that  I  am  with  you, 
my  darling,"  he  often  said. 

"  But  then  it  is  every  day,  Stephen,  —  think  of  that," 
Mercy  would  reply,  bent  always  on  making  all  things 
easier  instead  of  harder  for  him.  Even  the  conceal 
ment,  which  was  at  times  well-nigh  insupportable  to  her, 
she  never  complained  of  now.  She  had  accepted  it. 
"  And,  after  accepting  it,  I  have  no  right  to  reproach  him 
with  it :  it  would  be  base,"  she  thought. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  slowly  wearing  away  the  very 
foundations  of  her  peace.  The  morning  walks  had 
9* 


202  MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

long  been  given  up.  Mercy  had  been  resolute  about 
this.  When  she  found  Stephen  insisting  upon  going  in 
by-ways  and  lanes,  lest  some  one  should  see  them  who 
might  mention  it  to  his  mother,  when  he  told  her  that 
she  must  not  speak  of  it  to  her  own  mother,  she  said 
firmly,  — 

"  This  must  end,  Stephen.  How  hard  it  is  to  me  to 
give  it  up  you  know  very  well.  It  is  like  the  sunrise  to 
my  day,  always,  these  moments  with  you.  But  I  will 
not  multiply  concealments.  It  makes  me  guilty  and 
ashamed  all  the  time.  Don't  urge  me  to  any  such 
thing ;  for  I  am  not  sure  that  too  much  of  it  would  not 
kill  my  love  for  you.  Let  us  be  patient.  Chance  will 
do  a  good  deal  for  us  ;  but  I  will  not  plan  to  meet  clan 
destinely.  Whenever  you  can  come  to  our  house,  that 
is  different.  It  distresses  me  to  have  you  do  that  and 
never  tell  of  it ;  but  that  is  yours  and  not  mine,  if  any 
thing  can  be  yours  and  not  mine,"  she  added  sadly. 
Stephen  had  not  heard  the  last  words. 

"  Kill  your  love  for  me,  Mercy ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Are 
you  really  afraid  of  that  ?  " 

*'  No,  not  kill  my  love  for  you,"  replied  Me rcyv  "  I 
think  nothing  could  do  that,  but  kill  all  my  joy  in  my 
love  for  you  ;  and  that  would  be  as  terrible  to  you  as  if 
the  love  were  killed.  You  would  not  know  the  differ 
ence,  and  I  should  not  be  able  to  make  you  see  it." 

It  was  a  strange  thing  that  with  all  Stephen's  jealousy 
of  Mercy's  enlarged  and  enlarging  life,  of  her  ever- 
widening  circle  of  friends,  he  had  no  especial  jealousy 
of  Parson  Dorrance.  The  Parson  was  Mercy's  only 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  2O3 

frequent  visitor ;  and  Stephen  knew  very  well  that  he 
had  become  her  teacher  and  her  guide,  that  she  referred 
every  question  to  his  decision,  and  was  guided  implicitly 
by  his  taste  and  wish  in  her  writing  and  in  her  studies. 
But,  when  Stephen  was  a  boy  in  college,  Parson  Dor- 
ranee  had  seemed  to  him  an  old  man ;  and  he  now 
seemed  venerable.  Stephen  could  not  have  been  freer 
from  a  lover's  jealousy  of  him,  if  he  had  been  Mercy's 
own  father.  Perhaps,  if  his  instinct  had  been  truer,  it 
might  have  quickened  Mercy's.  She  was  equally  un 
aware  of  the  real  nature  of  the  Parson's  regard  for  her. 
He  did  for  her  the  same  things  he  did  for  Lizzy,  whom 
he  called  his  child.  He  came  to  see  her  no  oftener, 
spoke  to  her  no  more  affectionately  :  she  believed  that 
she  and  Lizzy  were  sisters  together  in  his  fatherly  heart. 

When  she  was  undeceived,  the  shock  was  very  great : 
it  was  twofold,  —  a  shock  to  her  sense  of  loyalty  to  Ste 
phen,  a  shock  to  her  tender  love  for  Parson  Dorrance. 
It  was  true,  as  she  had  said  to  Lizzy,  that  she  would 
have  died  to  give  him  a  pleasure ;  and  yet  she  was 
forced  to  inflict  on  him  the  hardest  of  all  pains.  Every 
circumstance  attending  it  made  it  harder ;  made  it  seem 
to  Mercy  always  in  after  life,  as  she  looked  back  upon 
it,  needlessly  hard,  —  cruelly,  malignantly  hard. 

It  was  in  the  early  autumn.  The  bright  colors  which 
had  thrilled  Mercy  with  such  surprise  and  pleasure  on 
her  first  arrival  in  Penfield  were  glowing  again  on  the 
trees,  it  seemed  to  her  brighter  than  before.  Purple 
asters  and  golden-rod  waved  on  the  roadsides  and  in  the 
delds ;  and  blue  gentians,  for  which  Penfield  was  famous, 


204  MERCY  PHILBRiLK'S  CHOICE. 

were  blooming  everywhere.  Parson  Dorrance  came  one 
day  to  take  Lizzy  and  Mercy  over  to  his  "  Parish,"  as 
he  called  "The  Cedars."  They  had  often  been  with 
him  there ;  and  Mercy  had  been  for  a  long  time  secretly 
hoping  that  he  would  ask  her  to  help  him  in  teaching 
the  negroes.  The  day  was  one  of  those  radiant  and 
crystalline  days  peculiar  to  the  New  England  autumn. 
On  such  days,  joy  becomes  inevitable  even  to  inert  and 
lifeless  natures :  to  enthusiastic  and  spontaneous  ones, 
the  exhilaration  of  the  air  and  the  sun  is  as  intoxicat 
ing  as  wine.  Mercy  was  in  one  of  her  most  mirthful 
moods.  She  frolicked  with  the  negro  children,  and 
decked  their  little  woolly  heads  with  wreaths  of  golden- 
rod,  till  they  looked  as  fantastic  as  dancing  monkeys. 
She  gathered  great  sheaves  of  ferns  and  blue  gentians 
and  asters,  until  the  Parson  implored  her  to  "  leave  a 
few  just  for  the  poor  sun  to  shine  on."  The  paths  wind 
ing  among  "  The  Cedars  "  were  in  some  places  thick-set 
with  white  eupatoriums,  which  were  now  in  full,  feathery 
flower,  some  of  them  so  old  that,  as  you  brushed  past 
them,  a  cloud  of  the  fine  thread-like  petals  flew  in  all 
directions.  Mercy  gathered  branch  after  branch  of 
these,  but  threw  them  away  impatiently,  as  the  flowers 
fell  off,  leaving  the  stems  bare. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed.  "Nature  wants  some 
seeds,  I  suppose;  but  I  want  flowers.  What  becomes 
of  the  poor  flower,  any  way  ?  it  lives  such  a  short  while ; 
all  its  beauty  and  grace  sacrificed  to  the  making  of  a 
seed  for  next  year." 

"  That  's  the  way  with  every  thing  in  life,  dear  child," 


MERCY  PHILDRICK'S  CHOICE.  205 

said  Parson  Dorrance.  "  The  thing  that  shall  be  is  the 
thing  for  which  all  the  powers  of  nature  are  at  work. 
We,  you  and  Lizzy  and  I,  will  drop  off  our  stems  pres 
ently,  —  I,  a  good  deal  the  first,  for  you  and  Lizzy  have 
the  blessing  of  youth,  but  I  am  old." 

"  You  are  not  old  !  You  are  the  youngest  person  I 
know,"  exclaimed  Mercy,  impetuously.  "  You  will  never 
be  old,  Mr.  Dorrance,  not  if  you  should  live  to  be  as 
old  as  —  as  old  as  the  Wandering  Jew !  " 

Mercy's  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  the  Parson's  face , 
but  she  did  not  note  the  deep  flush  which  rose  to  his 
very  hair,  as  she  said  these  words.  She  was  thinking 
only  of  the  glorious  soul,  and  seeing  only  its  shining 
through  the  outer  tabernacle.  Lizzy  Hunter,  however, 
saw  the  flush,  and  knew  what  it  meant,  and  her  heart 
gave  a  leap  of  joy.  "  Now  he  can  see  that  Mercy  never 
thinks  of  him  as  an  old  man,  and  never  would,"  she 
thought  to  herself ;  and  while  her  hands  were  idly  play 
ing  with  her  flowers  and  mosses,  and  her  face  looked 
as  innocent  and  care-free  as  a  baby's,  her  brain  was 
weaving  plots  of  the  most  complicated  devices  for  has 
tening  on  the  future  which  began  to  look  to  her  so  as 
sured  for  these  two. 

They  were  sitting  on  a  mossy  mound  in  the  shadow 
of  great  cedar-trees.  The  fields  around  "  The  Cedars  " 
were  filled  with  low  mounds,  like  velvet  cushions  :  some  of 
them  were  merely  a  mat  of  moss  over  great  rocks ;  some 
of  them  were  soft  yielding  masses  of  moss,  low  cor 
nel,  blueberry-bushes,  wintergreen,  blackberry-vines,  and 
sweet  ferns  •  dainty,  fragrant,  crowded  ovals,  lovelier 


206  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

than  any  florist  could  ever  make ;  white  and  green  in 
the  spring,  when  the  cornels  were  in  flower ;  scarlet 
and  green  and  blue  in  the  autumn,  when  the  cornels 
and  the  blueberries  were  in  fruit. 

Mercy  was  sitting  on  a  mound  which  was  thick-grown 
mth  the  shining  wintergreen.  She  picked  a  stem  which 
had  a  cluster  of  red  berries  on  it,  and  below  the  berries 
one  tiny  pink  blossom.  As  she  held  it  up,  the  blossom 
fell,  leaving  a  tiny  satin  disk  behind  it  on  its  stem.  She 
took  the  bell  and  tried  to  fit  it  again  on  its  place ;  then 
she  turned  it  over  and  over,  held  it  up  to  the  light  and 
looked  through  it.  "  It  makes  me  sad,"  she  said  :  "  I 
wish  I  knew  if  the  flower  knows  any  thing  about  the 
fruit.  If  it  were  working  to  that  end  all  the  while,  and 
so  were  content  to  pass  on  and  make  room,  it  would 
seem  all  right.  But  I  don't  want  to  pass  on  and  make 
room  !  I  do  so  like  to  be  here ! " 

Parson  Dorrance  looked  from  one  woman's  face  to 
the  other,  both  young,  both  lovely :  Lizzy's  so  full 
of  placid  content,  unquestioning  affection,  and  accept 
ance;  Mercy's  so  full  of  mysterious  earnestness,  far- 
seeing  vision,  and  interpretation. 

"  What  a  lot  lies  before  that  gifted  creature,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  if  life  should  go  wrong  with  her !  If  only 
I  might  dare  to  take  her  fate  into  my  hands  !  I  do  not 
believe  any  one  else  can  do  for  her  what  I  could,  if  I 
were  only  younger."  And  the  Parson  sighed. 

That  night  he  stayed  in  Penfield  at  Lizzy's  house. 
The  next  morning,  on  his  way  to  Danby,  he  stopped 
to  see  Mercy  for  a  moment.  When  he  entered  her 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  2O/ 

door,  he  had  no  knowledge  of  what  lay  before  him  \ 
he  had  not  yet  said  to  himself,  had  not  yet  dared 
to  say  to  himself,  that  he  would  ask  Mercy  to  be  his 
wife.  He  knew  that  the  thought  of  it  was  more  and 
more  present  with  him,  grew  sweeter  and  sweeter ;  yet 
he  had  never  ceased  resisting  it,  saying  that  it  was 
impossible.  That  is,  he  had  never  ceased  saying  so 
in  words ;  but  his  heart  had  ceased  resisting  long  ago. 
Only  that  traitor  which  we  call  judgment  had  been 
keeping  up  a  false  show  of  resolute  opinion,  just  to 
lure  the  beguiled  heart  farther  and  farther  on  in  a  mis 
taken  security. 

But  love  is  like  the  plants.  It  has  its  appointed 
days  for  flowers  and  for  the  falling  of  the  flowers. 
The  vague  sweetness  of  the  early  hours  and  days  to 
gether,  the  bright  happiness  of  the  first  close  intimacy 
and  interchange,  —  these  reach  their  destined  moment, 
to  pass  on  and  make  room  for  the  harvest.  Blessed 
are  the  lives  in  which  all  these  sweet  early  petals  float 
off  gently  and  in  season  for  the  perfect  setting  of  the 
holy  fruit ! 

On  this  morning,  when  Parson  Dorrance  entered 
Mercy's  room,  it  was  already  decorated  as  if  for  a  festi 
val.  Every  blooming  thing  she  had  brought  from  "  The 
Cedars  "  the  day  before  had  taken  its  own  place  in  the 
room,  and  looked  as  at  home  as  it  had  looked  in  the 
fields.  One  of  Mercy's  great  gifts  was  the  gift  of  creat 
ing  in  rooms  a  certain  look  which  it  is  hard  to  define. 
The  phrase  "vitalized  individuality,"  perhaps,  would 
come  as  near  describing  it  as  is  possible ;  for  it  was  not 


208  MERCY  PHILURICK'S   CHOICE. 

merely  that  the  rooms  looked  unlike  other  rooms.  Every 
article  in  them  seemed  to  stand  in  the  place  where  it 
must  needs  stand  by  virtue  of  its  use  and  its  quality. 
Every  thing  had  a  certain  sort  of  dramatic  fitness,  without 
in  the  least  trenching  on  the  theatrical.  Her  effects  were 
always  produced  with  simple  things,  in  simple  ways  ;  but 
they  resulted  in  an  impression  of  abundance  and  luxury. 
As  Parson  Dorrance  glanced  around  at  all  the  wild- 
wood  beauty,  and  the  wild-wood  fragrance  stole  upon 
his  senses,  a  great  mastering  wave  of  love  for  the 
woman  whose  hand  had  planned  it  all  swept  over  him. 
He  recalled  Mercy's  face  the  day  before,  when  she  had 
said,  — 

"  You  are  the  youngest  person  I  know  ; "  and,  as  she 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door  at  that  instant,  he 
went  swiftly  towards  her  with  outstretched  hands,  and  a 
look  on  his  face  which,  if  she  had  seen,  she  could  not 
have  failed  to  interpret  aright. 

But  she  was  used  to  the  outstretched  hands ;  she 
always  put  both  her  own  in  them,  as  simply  as  a  child ; 
and  she  was  bringing  to  her  teacher  now  a  little  poem,  of 
which  her  thoughts  were  full.  She  did  not  look  fully  in 
his  face,  therefore ;  for  it  was  still  a  hard  thing  for  her 
to  show  him  her  verses. 

Holding  out  the  paper,  she  said  shyly,  — 

"It  had  to  get  itself  said  or  sung,  you  know,  —  that 
thought  that  haunted  me  so  yesterday  at  "  The  Cedars." 
I  daresay  it  is  very  bad  poetry,  though." 

Parson  Dorrance  unfolded  the  paper,  and  read  the 
following  poem :  — 


MERCY  PHILBIUC1CS   CHOICE. 


WHERE  ? 

My  snowy  eupatorium  has  dropped 
Its  silver  threads  of  petals  in  the  night ; 
No  sound  told  me  its  blossoming  had  stopped  ; 
•    Its  seed-films  flutter,  silent,  ghostly  white : 
No  answer  stirs  the  shining  air, 
As  I  ask,  "  Where  ?  " 

Beneath  the  glossy  leaves  of  wintergreen 
Dead  lily-bells  lie  low,  and  in  their  place 
A  rounded  disk  of  pearly  pink  is  seen, 
Which  tells  not  of  the  lily's  fragrant  grace : 
No  answer  stirs  the  shining  air, 
As  I  ask  "  Where  ?  " 

This  morning's  sunrise  does  not  show  to  me 
Seed-film  or  fruit  of  my  sweet  yesterday  ; 
Like  falling  flowers,  to  realms  I  cannot  see 
Its  moments  floated  silently  away : 
No  answer  stirs  the  shining  air, 
As  I  ask,  "  Where  ?  " 

As  he  read  the  last  verse,  his  face  altered.  Mercy 
was  watching  him. 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  like  the  last  verse,"  she 
said  eagerly.  "  But,  indeed,  it  doesn't  mean  doubt.  I 
know  very  well  no  day  dies ;  but  we  can't  see  the  espe 
cial  good  of  each  single  day  by  itself.  That  is  all  I 
meant." 

Parson  Dorrance  came  closer  to  Mercy :  they  were 
both  standing.  He  laid  one  hand  on  her  head,  and 
said,  — 

"  Child,  it  was  a  'sweet  yesterday,'  wasn't  it?" 

N 


210  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mercy,  still  absorbed  in  the  thought 
of  the  poem.  "  The  day  was  as  sweet  as  the  flowers. 
But  all  days  are  heavenly  sweet  out  of  doors  with  you 
and  Lizzy,"  she  continued,  lifting  one  hand,  and  laying 
it  caressingly  on  the  hand  which  was  stroking  her  hair. 

"  O  Mercy !  Mercy !  couldn't  I  make  all  days  sweet 
for  you  ?  Come  to  me,  darling,  and  let  me  try ! " 
came  from  Parson  Dorrance's  lips  in  hurried  and  husky 
tones. 

Mercy  looked  at  him  for  one  second  in  undisguised 
terror  and  bewilderment.  Then  she  uttered  a  sharp  cry, 
as  of  one  who  had  suddenly  got  a  wound,  and,  bury 
ing  her  face  in  her  hands,  sank  into  a  chair  and  began 
to  cry  convulsively. 

Parson  Dorrance  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  He 
dared  not  speak.  He  was  not  quite  sure  what  Mercy's 
weeping  meant ;  so  hard  is  it,  for  a  single  moment,  to 
wrench  a  great  hope  out  of  a  man's  heart.  But,  as  she 
continued  sobbing,  he  understood.  Unselfish  to  the 
core,  his  first  thought  was,  even  now,  "  Alas  !  now  she 
will  never  let  me  do  any  thing  more  for  her.  Oh,  how 
shall  I  win  her  back  to  trust  me  as  a  father  again  ? " 

r  Mercy-!  "  he  said.  Mercy  did  not  answer  nor  look 
ap. 

"  Mercy !  "  he  repeated  in  a  firmer  tone.  "  Mercy, 
my  child,  look  up  at  me ! " 

Docile  from  her  long  habit  and  from  her  great  love, 
Mercy  looked  up,  with  the  tears  streaming.  As  soon  as 
she  saw  Parson  Dorrance's  face,  she  burst  again  into 
more  violent  crvin^.  and  sobbed  out  incoherently,  — 


MEIIVY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  211 

"  Oh !  I  never  knew  it.     It  wouldn't  be  right." 

"  Hush,  dear  !  Hush  ! "  said  the  Parson,  in  a  voice 
of  tender  authority.  "I  have  done  wrong;  and  you 
must  forgive  me,  and  forget  it.  You  are  not  in  the 
least  to  blame.  It  is  I  who  ought  to  have  known  that 
you  could  never  think  of  me  as  any  thing  but  a  father." 

"  Oh !  it  is  not  that,"  sobbed  Mercy,  vehemently,  — 
"  it  is  not  that  at  all  !  But  it  wouldn't  be  right." 

Parson  Dorrance  would  not  have  been  human  if 
Mercy's  vehement  "  It  is  not  that,  —  it  is  not  that !  "  had 
not  fallen  on  his  ear  gratefully,  and  made  hope  stir  in 
his  heart  again.  But  her  evident  grief  was  too  great  for 
the  hope  to  last  a  moment. 

"  You  may  not  know  why  it  seems  so  wrong  to  you, 
dear  child,"  he  continued ;  "  but  that  is  the  real  reason. 
There  could  be  no  other."  He  paused.  Mercy  shud 
dered,  and  opened  her  lips  to  speak  again ;  but  the 
words  refused  to  be  uttered.  This  was  the  supreme 
moment  of  pain.  If  she  could  but  have  said, — 

"  I  loved  some  one  else  long  before  I  saw  you.  I 
was  not  my  own.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  I  should 
have  loved  you,  I  know  I  should  ! "  Even  in  her 
tumult  of  suffering,  she  was  distinctly  conscious  of  all 
this.  The  words  "  I  could  have  loved  him,  I  know  I 
could  !  I  can't  bear  to  have  him  think  it  is  because 
he  is  so  old,"  went  clamoring  in  her  heart,  pleadii  g  to 
be  said  ;  but  she  dared  not  say  them. 

Tenderly  and  patiently  Parson  Dorrance  endeavored 
to  soothe  her,  to  convince  her  that  his  words  sprung 
from  a  hasty  impulse  which  he  would  be  able  wholly  to 


212  MERCY  PUILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

put  aside  and  forget.  The  one  thing  that  he  longed 
now  to  do,  the  only  reparation  that  he  felt  was  left  for 
him  to  make  to  her,  was  to  enable  her,  if  possible,  to 
look  on  him  as  she  had  done  before.  But  Mercy  herself 
made  this  more  difficult.  Suddenly  wiping  her  tears, 
she  looked  very  steadily  into  his  face,  and  said  slowly,  — 

"  It  is  not  of  the  least  use,  Mr.  Dorrance,  for  you  to 
say  this  sort  of  thing  to  me.  You  can't  deceive  me.  I 
know  exactly  how  you  love  me,  and  how  you  always  will 
love  me.  And,  oh,  I  wish  I  were  dead  !  It  can  never 
be  any  thing  but  pain  to  you  to  see  me,  —  never,"  and 
she  wept  more  bitterly  than  before. 

"  You  do  not  know  me,  Mercy,"  replied  the  Parson, 
speaking  as  slowly  as  she  had  done.  "  All  my  life  has 
been  one  long  sacrifice  of  my  own  chief  preferences.  It 
is  not  hard  for  me  to  do  it." 

Mercy  clasped  her  hands  tighter,  and  groaned,  — 

"  Oh,  I  know  it !  I  know  it !  and  I  said  you  were  on  a 
plane  above  all  thought  of  personal  happiness." 

The  Parson  looked  bewildered,  but  went  on,  — 

"  You  do  love  me,  my  child,  very  dearly,  do  you  not  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  do  !  "  cried  Mercy.  "  You  know  I 
do!" 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  do,  or  I  should  not  have  said  that. 
You  know  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  moaned  Mercy. 

"  Very  well.  Now  remember  that  you  and  Lizzy  are 
my  two  children,  and  that  the  greatest  happiness  I  can 
have,  the  greatest  help  in  my  loneliness,  is  the  love  of 
my  two  daughters.  You  will  not  refuse  me  this  help, 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  213 

will  you  ?  You  will  let  me  be  just  as  I  was  before,  will 
you  not  ? " 

Mercy  did  not  answer. 

"  Will  you  try,  Mercy  ?  "  he  said  in  a  tone  almost  of 
the  old  affectionate  authority ;  and  Mercy  again  moaned 
rather  than  said,  — 

"Yes." 

Then  Parson  Dorrance  kissed  her  hair  where  his  hand 
had  lain  a  few  moments  before,  and  said,  — 

"  Now  I  must  go.     Good-by,  my  child." 

But  Mercy  did  not  look  up ;  and  he  closed  the  door 
gently,  leaving  her  sitting  there  bowed  and  heart- 
stricken,  in  the  little  room  so  gay  with  the  bright  flow 
ers  she  had  gathered  on  her  "  sweet  yesterday." 


214  MERCY  PlllLBRlCK'S   CHOICE. 


CHAPTER   X. 

r  I  "'HE  winter  set  in  before  its  time,  and  with  almost 
-*-  unprecedented  severity.  Early  in  the  last  week 
in  November,  the  whole  country  was  white  with  snow, 
the  streams  were  frozen  solid,  and  the  cold  was  intense. 
Week  after  week  the  mercury  ranged  from  zero  to 
ten,  fifteen,  and  even  twenty  below,  and  fierce  winds 
howled  night  and  day.  It  was  a  terrible  winter  for  old 
people.  They  dropped  on  all  sides,  like  leaves  swept 
off  of  trees  in  autumn  gales.  It  was  startling  to  read 
the  death  records  in  the  newspapers,  so  large  a  propor 
tion  of  them  were  of  men  and  women  past  sixty.  Mrs. 
Carr  had  been  steadily  growing  feebler  all  summer ;  but 
the  change  had  seemed  to  Mercy  to  be  more  mental 
than  physical,  and  she  had  been  in  a  measure  blinded 
to  her  mother's  real  condition.  With  the  increase  of 
childishness  and  loss  of  memory  had  come  an  increased 
gentleness  and  love  of  quiet,  which  partially  disguised 
the  loss  of  strength.  She  would  sit  in  her  chair  from 
morning  till  night,  looking  out  of  the  window  or  watch 
ing  the  movements  of  those  around  her,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  perfect  placidity  on  her  face.  When  she  was 
spoken  to,  she  smiled,  but  did  not  often  speak.  The 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  215 

smile  was  meaningless  and  yet  infinitely  pathetic :  it 
was  an  infant's  smile  on  an  aged  face ;  the  infant's  heart 
and  infant's  brain  had  come  back.  All  the  weariness, 
all  the  perplexity,  all  the  sorrow,  had  gone  from  life,  had 
slipped  away  from  memory.  This  state  had  come  on  so 
gradually  that  even  Mercy  hardly  realized  the  extent 
of  it.  The  silent  smile  or  the  gentle,  simple  ejacula 
tions  with  which  her  mother  habitually  replied  meant 
more  to  her  than  they  did  to  others.  She  did  not  com 
prehend  how  little  they  really  proved  a  full  conscious 
ness  on  her  mother's  part ;  and  she  was  unutterably 
shocked,  when,  on  going  to  her  bedside  one  morning, 
she  found  her  unable  to  move,  and  evidently  without 
clear  recognition  of  any  one's  face.  The  end  had 
begun  ;  the  paralysis  which  had  so  slowly  been  putting 
the  mind  to  rest  had  prostrated  the  body  also.  It  was 
now  only  a  question  of  length  of  siege,  of  how  much  vital 
force  the  system  had  hoarded  up.  Lying  helpless  in 
bed,  the  poor  old  woman  was  as  placid  and  gentle  as 
before.  She  never  murmured  nor  even  stirred  impa 
tiently.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  any  weariness. 
The  only  emotion  she  showed  was  when  Mercy  left  the 
room ;  then  she  would  cry  silently  till  Mercy  returned. 
Her  eyes  followed  Mercy  constantly,  as  a  little  babe's 
follow  its  mother ;  and  she  would  not  take  a  mouthful  of 
food  from  any  other  hand. 

It  was  the  very  hardest  form  of  illness  for  Mercy  to 
bear.  A  violent  and  distressing  disease,  taxing  her 
strength,  her  ingenuity  to  their  utmost  every  moment, 
would  have  been  comparatively  nothing  to  her.  To  sit 


216  MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

day  after  day,  night  after  night,  gazing  into  the  sense 
less  yet  appealing  eyes  of  this  motionless  being,  who 
had  literally  no  needs  except  a  helpless  animal's  needs 
of  food  and  drink ;  who  clung  to  her  with  the  irrational 
clinging  of  an  infant,  yet  would  never  know  even  her 
name  again,  —  it  was  worse  than  the  chaining  of  life  to 
death.  As  the  days  wore  on,  a  species  of  terror  took 
possession  of  Mercy.  It  seemed  to  her  that  this  silent 
watchful,  motionless  creature  never  had  been  her 
mother,  —  never  had  been  a  human  being  like  other 
human  beings.  As  the  old  face  grew  more  and  more 
haggard,  and  the  old  hands  more  and  more  skinny 
and  claw-like,  and  the  traces  of  intellect  and  thought 
more  and  more  faded  away  from  the  features,  the  horror 
deepened,  until  Mercy  feared  that  her  own  brain  must 
be  giving  way.  She  revolted  from  the  very  thought  of 
herself  for  having  such  a  feeling  towards  her  mother. 
Every  instinct  of  loyalty  in  her  deeply  loyal  nature  rose 
up  indignantly  against  her.  She  would  reiterate  to  her 
self  the  word,  "  Mother !  mother !  mother ! "  as  she  sat 
gazing  with  a  species  of  horror-stricken  fascination  into 
the  meaningless  face.  But  she  could  not  shake  off  the 
feeling*  Her  nerves  were  fast  giving  way  under  the 
strain,  and  no  one  could  help  her.  If  she  left  the  room 
or  the  house,  the  consciousness  that  the  helpless  creat 
ure  was  lying  silently  weeping  for  lack  of  the  sight  of 
her  pursued  her  like  a  presence.  She  saw  the  piteous 
old  face  on  the  pillow,  and  the  slow  tears  trickling  down 
the  cheeks,  just  as  distinctly  as  if  she  were  sitting  by 
the  bed.  On  the  whole,  the  torture  of  staying  was  less 


MERCY  PniLBIUCK'S   CHOICE. 


than  the  torture  of  being  away  ;  and  for  weeks  together 
she  did  not  leave  the  house.  Sometimes  a  dull  sense 
of  relief  came  to  her  in  the  thought  that  by  this  strange 
confinement  she  was  escaping  many  things  which  would 
have  been  hard.  She  rarely  saw  Stephen  except  for  a 
few  moments  late  in  the  evening.  He  had  ventured  into 
Mrs.  Carr's  room  once  or  twice  ;  but  his  presence  seemed 
to  disturb  her,  the  only  presence  that  had  done  so. 
She  looked  distressed,  made  agonizing  efforts  to  speak, 
and  with  the  hand  she  could  lift  made  a  gesture  to  repel 
him  when  he  drew  near  the  bed.  In  Mercy's  over 
wrought  state,  this  seemed  to  her  like  an  omen.  She 
shuddered,  and  drew  Stephen  away. 

"O  Stephen,"  she  said,  "she  knows  now  that  I 
have  deceived  her  about  you.  Don't  come  near  her 
again." 

"You  never  deceived  her,  darling.  Do  not  distress 
yourself  so,"  whispered  Stephen.  They  were  standing 
on  the  threshold  of  the  room.  A  slight  rustling  in  the 
bed  made  them  turn  :  Mrs.  Carr  had  half-lifted  her 
head  from  the  pillow,  her  lower  jaw  had  fallen  to  its 
utmost  extent  in  her  effort  to  articulate,  and  she  was 
pointing  the  forefinger  of  her  left  hand  at  the  door.  It 
was  a  frightful  sight.  Even  Stephen  turned  pale,  and 
sprang  hastily  away. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mercy,  in  a  ghastly  whisper,  "  some 
times  she  certainly  does  know  things;  but  she  never 
looks  like  that  except  at  you.  You  must  never  come  in 
again." 

"No,"   said   Stephen,   almost   as   horror-stricken   as 

10 


21 8  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

Mercy.  "It  is  very  strange  though,  for  she  always 
used  to  seem  so  fond  of  me." 

"  She  was  very  childish  and  patient,"  said  Mercy. 
"  And  I  think  she  thought  that  you  were  slowly  getting 
to  care  about  me;  but  now,  wherever  her  soul  is, — 
I  think  it  has  left  her  body,  —  she  knows  that  we 
deceived  her." 

Stephen  made  no  answer,  but  turned  to  go.  The 
expression  of  resolved  endurance  on  his  face  pierced 
Mercy  to  the  quick,  as  it  always  did.  She  sprang  after 
him,  and  clasped  both  her  hands  on  his  arm.  "  O  Stephen, 
darling, — precious,  brave,  strong  darling!  do  forgive 
me.  I  ought  to  be  killed  for  even  saying  one  word  to  give 
you  pain.  How  I  can,  I  don't  see,  when  I  long  so  to 
make  you  happy  always." 

"  You  do  give  me  great,  unutterable  happiness,  Mercy," 
he  replied.  "  I  never  think  of  the  pain :  I  only  think 
of  the  joy,"  and  he  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips.  "  All  the 
pain  that  you  could  possibly  give  me  in  a  lifetime  could 
not  outweigh  the  joy  of  one  such  moment  as  this,  when 
you  say  that  you  love  me." 

These  days  were  unspeakably  hard  for  Stephen.  He 
had  grown  during  the  past  year  to  so  live  on  the  sight 
and  in  the  blessedness  of  Mercy  that  to  be  shut  away 
from  them  was  simply  a  sort  of  dying.  There  was  no 
^oing  back  for  him  to  the  calm  routine  of  the  old  life 
before  she  came.  He  was  restless  and  wretched:  he 
walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  house  every  night, 
watching  the  shadow  of  her  figure  on  the  curtains  of  her 
mother's  room.  He  made  all  manner  of  excuses,  true 


MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  2ig 

and  false,  reasonable  and  unreasonable,  to  speak  to  her 
for  a  moment  at  the  door  in  the  morning.  He  carried 
the  few  verses  in  his  pocket-book  she  had  given  him , 
and,  although  he  knew  them  nearly  by  heart,  he  spent 
long  hours  in  his  office  turning  the  little  papers  over 
and  over.  Some  of  them  were  so  joyous  that  they  stirred 
in  him  almost  a  bitter  incredulity  as  he  read  them  in 
these  days  of  loss  and  pain.  One  was  a  sonnet  which 
she  had  written  during  a  two  days'  absence  of  his,  —  his 
only  absence  from  his  mother's  house  for  six  years. 
Mercy  had  been  astonished  at  her  sense  of  loneliness  in 
these  two  days.  "  O  Stephen,"  she  had  said,  when  he 
came  back,  "  I  am  honestly  ashamed  of  having  missed 
you  so  much.  Just  the  knowing  that  you  wouldn't  be 
here  to  come  in,  in  the  evenings,  made  the  days  seem 
a  thousand  years  long,  and  this  is  what  came  of  it." 
And  she  gave  him  this  sonnet :  — 

TO   AN   ABSENT   LOVER. 

That  so  much  change  should  come  when  thou  dost  go, 

Is  mystery  that  I  cannot  ravel  quite. 

The  very  house  seems  dark  as  when  the  light 

Of  lamps  goes  out.     Each  wonted  thing  doth  grow 

So  altered,  that  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Bewildered  by  the  most  familiar  sight, 

And  feel  like  one  who  rouses  in  the  night 

From  dream  of  ecstasy,  and  cannot  know 

At  first  if  he  be  sleeping  or  awake, 

My  foolish  heart  so  foolish  for  thy  sake 

Hath  grown,  dear  one  ! 

Teach  me  to  be  more  wise. 
I  blush  for  all  my  foolishness  doth  lack  ; 


220  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

I  fear  to  seem  a  coward  in  thine  eyes. 

Teach  me,  dear  one,  —  but  first  thou  must  come  back  ! 

Another  was  a  little  poem,  which  she  laughingly  called 
lis  and  not  hers.     One  morning,  when  they  had  bade 
each  other  "  good-by,"  and  she  had  kissed  him,  —  a  rare 
thing  for  Mercy  to  do,  he  had  exclaimed,  "That  kiss  will 
go  floating  before  me  all  clay  in  the  air,  Mercy.     I  shall 
see  every  thing  in  a  light  as  rosy  as  your  lips." 
At  night  she  gave  him  this  little  poem,  saying,  — 
"This   is   your  poem,   not  mine,   darling.     I  should 
never  have  thought  of  any  thing  so  absurd  myself." 

"COULEUR  DE  ROSE." 

All  things  to-day  "  Couleur  de  rose," 

I  see,  —  oh,  why  ? 
I  know,  and  my  dear  love  she  knows, 

Why,  oh,  why  ! 

On  both  my  eyes  her  lips  she  set, 
All  red  and  warm  and  dewy  wet, 

As  she  passed  by. 
The  kiss  did  not  my  eyelids  close, 
But  like  a  rosy  vapor  goes, 

Where'er  I  sit,  where'er  I  lie, 
Before  my  every  glance,  and  shows 

All  things  to-day  "  Couleur  de  rose." 

Would  it  last  thus  ?     Alas,  who  knows  ? 

Men  ask  and  sigh  : 
They  say  it  fades,  "  Couleur  de  rose." 

Why,  oh,  why  ? 

Without  swift  joy  and  sweet  surprise, 
Surely  those  lips  upon  my  eyes 

Could  never  lie, 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  221 

Though  both  our  heads  were  white  as  snows, 
And  though  the  bitterest  storm  that  blows, 

Of  trouble  and  adversity, 
Had  bent  us  low :  all  life  still  shows 

To  eyes  that  love  "  Couleur  de  rose." 

This  sonnet,  also,  she  persisted  in  calling  Stephen's, 
and  not  her  own,  because  he  had  asked  her  the  ques 
tion  which  had  suggested  it :  — 

LOVERS'   THOUGHTS. 

"  How  feels  the  earth  when,  breaking  from  the  night, 

The  sweet  and  sudden  Dawn  impatient  spills 

Her  rosy  colors  all  along  the  hills  ? 

How  feels  the  sea,  as  it  turns  sudden  white, 

And  shines  like  molten  silver  in  the  light 

Which  pours  from  eastward  when  the  full  moon  falls 

Her  time  to  rise  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  love,  what  thrills 
The  earth,  the  sea,  may  feel.     How  should  I  know  ? 
Except  I  guess  by  this,  — the  joy  I  feel 
When  sudden  on  my  silence  or  my  gloom 
Thy  presence  bursts  and  lights  the  very  room  ? 
Then  on  my  face  doth  not  glad  color  steal 
Like  shining  waves,  or  hill-tops'  sunrise  glow?" 

One  of  the  others  was  the  poem  of  which  I  spoke 
once  before,  the  poem  which  had  been  suggested  to  her 
by  her  desolate  sense  of  homelessness  on  the  first  night 
of  her  arrival  in  Penfield.  This  poem  had  been  widely 
copied  after  its  first  appearance  in  one  of  the  maga 
zines;  and  it  had  been  more  than  once  said  of  it, 
"  Surely  no  one  but  a  genuine  outcast  could  have 
written  such  a  poem  as  this."  It  was  hard  for  Mercy's 


222  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

friends  to  associate  the  words  with  her.  When  she  was 
asked  how  it  happened  that  she  wrote  them,  she  ex 
claimed,  "I  did  not  write  that  poem,  I  lived  it  one 
night,  —  the  night  when  I  came  to  Penfield,  and  drove 
through  these  streets  in  the  rain  with  mother.  No 
vagabond  in  the  world  ever  felt  more  forlorn  than  I  did 
then." 

THE   OUTCAST. 

0  sharp,  cold  wind,  thou  art  my  friend  ! 
And  thou,  fierce  rain,  I  need  not  dread 
Thy  wonted  touch  upon  my  head  ! 

On,  loving  brothers  !     Wreak  and  spend 
Your  force  on  all  these  dwellings.     Rend 
These  doors  so  pitilessly  locked, 
To  keep  the  friendless  out !     Strike  dead 
The  fires  whose  glow  hath  only  mocked 
By  muffled  rays  the  night  where  I, 
The  lonely  outcast,  freezing  lie  ! 

Ha  !     If  upon  those  doors  to-night 

1  knocked,  how  well  I  know  the  stare, 
The  questioning,  the  mingled  air 

Of  scorn  and  pity  at  the  sight, 

The  wonder  if  it  would  be  right 

To  give  me  alms  of  meat  and  bread ! 

And  if  I,  reckless,  standing  there, 

For  once  the  truth  imploring  said, 

That  not  for  bread  or  meat  I  longed, 

That  such  an  alms  my  real  need  wronged, 

That  I  would  fain  come  in,  and  sit 

Beside  their  fire,  and  hear  the  voice 

Of  children  ;  yea,  and  if  my  choice 

Were  free,  and  I  dared  mention  it, 

And  some  sweet  child  should  think  me  fit,  — 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  223 

To  hold  a  child  upon  my  knee 

One  moment,  would  my  soul  rejoice, 

More  than  to  banquet  royally, 

And  I  the  pulses  of  its  wrist 

Would  kiss,  as  men  the  cross  have  kissed. 

Ha !    Well  the  haughty  stare  I  know 

With  which  they  'd  say,  "  The  man  is  mad  I " 

"  What  an  impostor's  face  he  had  !  " 

"  How  insolent  these  beggars  grow  1 " 

Go  to,  ye  happy  people  !     Go  ! 

My  yearning  is  as  fierce  as  hate. 

Must  my  heart  break,  that  yours  be  glad  ? 

Will  your  turn  come  at  last,  though  late  ? 

I  will  not  knock,  I  will  pass  by  ; 

My  comrades  wait,  —  the  wind,  the  rain. 

Comrades,  we  '11  run  a  race  to-night ! 

The  stakes  may  not  seem  much  to  gain  : 

The  goal  is  not  marked  plain  in  sight ; 

But,  comrades,  understand,  —  if  I 

Drop  dead,  't  will  be  a  victory  ! 

These  poems  and  many  others  Stephen  carried  with 
him  wherever  he  went.  To  read  them  over  was  next 
to  seeing  Mercy.  The  poet  was  hardly  less  dear  to  him 
than  the  woman.  He  felt  at  times  so  removed  from  her 
by  the  great  gulf  which  her  genius  all  unconsciously 
seemed  to  create  between  herself  and  him  that  he 
doubted  his  own  memories  of  her  love,  and  needed  to 
be  reassured  by  gazing  into  her  eyes,  touching  her  hand, 
and  listening  to  her  voice.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  if 
this  separation  lasted  much  longer,  he  should  lose  all 
faith  in  the  fact  of  their  relation.  Very  impatient  thoughts 
of  poor  old  Mrs.  Carr  filled  Stephen's  thoughts  in 


224  MERCY  PIULBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

these  days.  Heretofore  she  had  been  no  barrier  to  his 
happiness ;  her  still  and  childlike  presence  was  no  re 
straint  upon  him ;  he  had  come  to  disregard  it  as  he 
would  the  presence  of  an  infant  in  a  cradle.  Therefore, 
he  had,  or  thought  he  had,  the  kindest  of  feelings 
towards  her ;  but  now  that  her  helpless  paralyzed  hands 
had  the  power  to  shut  him  away  from  Mercy,  he  hated 
her,  as  he  had  always  hated  every  thing  which  stood 
between  him  and  delight.  Yet,  had  it  been  his  duty 
to  minister  to  her,  he  would  have  done  it  as  gently,  as 
faithfully,  as  Mercy  herself.  He  would  have  spoken  to 
her  in  the  mildest  and  tenderest  of  tones,  while  in  his 
heart  he  wished  her  dead.  So  far  can  a  fine  fastidious 
ness,  allied  to  a  sentiment  of  compassion,  go  towards 
making  a  man  a  consummate  hypocrite. 

Parson  Dorrance  came  often  to  see  Mercy,  but  always 
with  Lizzy  Hunter.  By  the  subtle  instinct  of  love,  he 
knew  that  to  see  him  thus,  and  see  him  often,  would 
soonest  win  back  for  him  his  old  place  in  Mercy's  life. 
The  one  great  desire  he  had  left  now  was  to  regain 
that,  —  to  see  her  again  look  up  in  his  face  with  the  frank, 
free,  loving  look  which  she  always  had  had  until  that 
sad  morning. 

A  strange  incident  happened  to  Mercy  in  these  first 
weeks  of  her  mother's  illness.  She  was  called  to 
the  door  one  morning  by  the  message  that  a  stranger 
wished  to  speak  to  her.  She  found  standing  there  an 
elderly  woman,  with  a  sweet  but  care-worn  face,  who 
said  eagerly,  as  soon  as  she  appeared,  — 

"  Are  you  Mrs.  Philbrick  ? " 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  22$ 

"  Yes,"  said  Mercy.     "  Did  you  wish  to  see  ne  ? " 

The  woman  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  phrase 
her  sentence,  and  then  burst  out  impetuously,  with  a 
flood  of  tears,  — 

"Won't  you  come  and  help  me  make  my  husband 
come  home.  He  is  so  sick,  and  I  believe  he  will  die  in 
that  wretched  old  garret." 

Mercy  looked  at  her  in  blank  astonishment,  and  her 
first  thought  was  that  she  must  be  insane ;  but  the 
woman  continued,  — 

"  I  'm  Mrs.  Wheeler.  You  never  saw  me  before,  but 
my  husband 's  talked  about  you  ever  since  he  first  saw 
you  on  the  street,  that  day.  You  're  the  only  human 
being  I  Ve  ever  known  him  take  a  fancy  to ;  and  I  do 
believe,  if  anybody  could  do  any  thing  with  him,  you 
could." 

It  seemed  that,  in  addition  to  all  his  other  eccentrici 
ties,  "  Old  Man  Wheeler  "  had  the  habit  of  disappearing 
from  his  home  at  intervals,  leaving  no  clew  behind  him. 
He  had  attacks  of  a  morbid  unwillingness  to  see  a 
human  face :  during  these  attacks,  he  would  hide  him 
self,  sometimes  in  one  place,  sometimes  in  another.  He 
had  old  warehouses,  old  deserted  mills  and  factories, 
and  uninhabited  rooms  and  houses  in  all  the  towns  in 
the  vicinity.  There  was  hardly  any  article  of  merchan 
dise  which  he  had  not  at  one  time  or  another  had  a 
depot  for,  or  a  manufactory  of.  He  had  especially  a 
hobby  for  attempting  to  make  articles  which  were  not 
made  in  this  country.  It  was  only  necessary  for  some 
one  to  go  to  him,  and  say,  "  Mr.  Wheeler,  do  you  know 
10*  o 


226  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

how  much  this  country  pays  every  year  for  importing 
such  or  such  an  article  ?  "  to  throw  him  into  a  rage. 

"  Damned  nonsense  !  Damned  nonsense,  sir.  Just  as 
well  make  it  here.  I  '11  make  it  myself."  And  up  would 
start  a  new  manufacture,  just  as  soon  as  he  could  get 
men  to  work  at  it. 

At  one  time  it  was  ink,  at  another  time  brushes,  then 
chintz,  and  then  pocket-books  ;  in  fact,  nobody  pretended 
to  remember  all  the  schemes  which  the  old  man  had  failed 
in.  He  would  stop  them  as  instantaneously  as  he  began 
them,  dismiss  the  workmen,  shut  up  the  shops  or  the 
mills,  turn  the  key  on  them  just  as  they  stood,  very 
possibly  filled  full  of  material  in  the  rough.  He  did 
not  care.  The  hobby  was  over :  he  had  proved  that  the 
thing  could  be  made  in  America,  and  he  was  content. 
It  was  usually  in  some  one  of  these  disused  buildings 
that  he  set  up  his  hermitage  in  these  absences  from 
home.  He  would  sally  out  once  a  day  and  buy  bread, 
just  a  pittance,  hardly  enough  to  keep  him  alive,  and 
then  bury  himself  again  in  darkness  and  solitude.  If 
the  absence  did  not  last  more  than  three  or  four  days, 
his  wife  and  sons  gave  themselves  no  concern  about 
him.  He  usually  returned  a  saner  and  healthier  man 
than  he  went  away.  When  the  absences  were  longer, 
they  went  in  search  of  him,  and  could  usually  prevail 
on  him  to  return  home  with  them.  But  this  last  absence 
had  been  much  longer  than  usual  before  they  found  him. 
He  was  as  cunning  and  artful  as  a  fugitive  from  justice 
in  concealing  his  haunt.  At  last  he  was  discovered  in 
the  old  garret  store-room  over  the  Brick  Row.  The 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  22 7 

marvel  was  that  he  had  not  died  of  cold  there.  He  was 
not  far  from  it,  however ;  for  he  was  so  ill  that  at  times 
he  was  delirious.  He  lay  curled  up  in  the  old  stack  of 
comforters  in  the  corner,  with  only  a  jug  of  water  and 
some  crumbs  of  bread  by  his  side,  when  they  found  him. 
He  had  been  so  ill  when  he  last  crawled  up  the  stairs 
that  he  had  forgotten  to  take  the  key  out  of  the  key 
hole,  but  left  it  on  the  outside,  and  by  that  they  found 
him.  At  the  bare  suggestion  of  his  going  home,  he 
became  so  furious  that  it  seemed  unsafe  to  urge  it. 
His  wife  and  eldest  son  had  stayed  there  with  him  now 
for  two  days  ;  but  he  had  grown  steadily  worse,  and  it 
was  plain  that  he  must  die  unless  he  could  be  properly 
cared  for. 

"  At  last  I  thought  of  you,"  said  the  poor  woman. 
"  He  's  always  said  so  much  about  you ;  and  once,  when 
I  was  riding  with  him,  he  pointed  you  out  to  me  on  the 
street,  and  said  he,  'That  's  the  very  nicest  girl  in 
America.'  And  he  told  me  about  his  giving  you  the 
clock ;  and  I  never  knew  him  give  any  thing  away 
before  in  his  whole  life.  Not  but  what  he  has  always 
been  very  good  to  me,  in  his  way.  He  'd  never  give  me 
a  cent  o'  money  ;  but  he  'd  always  pay  bills,  —  that  is, 
that  was  any  way  reasonable.  But  I  said  to  'Siah  this 
morning,  '  If  there  's  anybody  on  earth  can  coax  your 
father  to  let  us  take  him  home,  it 's  that  Mrs.  Philbrick  ; 
and  I  'm  going  to  find  her.'  'Siah  didn't  want  me  to. 
The  boys  are  so  ashamed  about  it ;  but  I  don't  see  any 
shame  in  it.  It 's  just  a  kind  of  queer  way  Mr.  Wheeler  'a 
always  had;  and  everybody  's  got  something  queer 


228  MERCY  PHFLBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

about  'em,  first  or  last ;  and  this  way  of  Mr.  Wheeler's 
of  going  off  don't  hurt  anybody  but  himself.  I  got  used 
to  't  long  ago.  Now,  won't  you  come,  and  try  and  see  if 
you  can't  persuade  him  ?  It  won't  do  any  harm  to  try." 

"  Why,  yes,  indeed,  Mrs.  Wheeler,  I  '11  come  ;  but  I 
don't  believe  I  can  do  any  thing,"  said  Mercy,  much 
touched  by  the  appeal  to  her.  "  I  have  wondered  very 
much  what  had  become  of  Mr.  Wheeler.  I  had  not 
seen  him  for  a  long  time." 

When  they  went  into  the  garret,  the  old  man  was  half- 
lying,  half-sitting,  propped  on  his  left  elbow.  In  his 
right  hand  he  held  his  cane,  with  which  he  continually 
tapped  the  floor,  as  he  poured  out  a  volley  of  angry  re 
proaches  to  his  son  "  'Siah,"  a  young  man  of  eighteen  or 
twenty  years  old,  who  sat  on  a  roll  of  leather  at  a  safe 
distance  from  his  father's  lair.  As  the  door  opened, 
and  he  saw  Mercy  entering  with  his  wife,  the  old  man's 
face  underwent  the  most  extraordinary  change.  Sui 
prise,  shame,  perplexity,  bravado,  —  all  struggled  to 
gether  there. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  God  bless  my  soul !  "  he  ex 
claimed,  trying  to  draw  the  comforters  more  closely 
about  him. 

Mercy  went  up  to  him,  and,  sitting  down  by  his  side, 
began  to  talk  to  him  in  a  perfectly  natural  tone,  as  if 
she  were  making  an  ordinary  call  on  an  invalid  in  his 
own  home.  She  said  nothing  to  suggest  that  he  had 
done  any  thing  unnatural  in  hiding  himself,  and  spoke 
of  his  severe  cold  as  being  merely  what  every  one  else 
had  been  suffering  from  for  some  time.  Then  she  told 


MERCY  PHlLBRICRz    CHOICE.  229 

him  how  ill  her  mother  was,  and  succeeded  in  really 
arousing  his  interest  in  that.  Finally,  she  said,  — 

"But  I  must  go  now.  I  can't  be  away  from  my 
mother  long.  I  will  come  and  see  you  again  to-morrow. 
Shall  I  find  you  here  or  at  your  home  ? " 

"  Well,  I  was  thinking  I  'd  better  move  home  to-day," 
said  he. 

His  wife  and  son  involuntarily  exchanged  glances. 
This  was  more  than  they  had  dared  to  hope. 

"  Yes,  I  would,  if  I  were  you,"  replied  Mercy,  still  in 
a  perfectly  natural  tone.  "  It  would  be  so  much  better 
for  you  to  be  in  a  room  with  a  fire  in  it  for  a  few  days. 
There  isn't  any  way  of  warming  this  room,  is  there  ? " 
said  she,  looking  all  about,  as  if  to  see  if  it  might  not  be 
possible  still  to  put  up  a  stove  there.  "  'Siah  "  turned  his 
head  away  to  hide  a  smile,  so  amused  was  he  by  the  tact 
of  the  remark.  "  No,  I  see  there  is  no  stovepipe-hole 
here,"  she  went  on,  "  so  you  'd  much  better  move 
home.  I  'm  going  by  the  stable.  Let  me  send  Seth 
right  up  with  the  carriage,  won't  you  ? " 

"  No,  no !  Bless  my  soul !  Thinks  I  'm  made  of 
money,  don't  she  !  No,  no  !  I  can  walk."  And  the 
old  half-crazy  glare  came  into  his  eyes. 

Mercy  went  nearer  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  gently 
on  his. 

"  Mr.  Wheeler,"  said  she,  "  you  did  something  very 
kind  for  me  once :  now  won't  you  do  something  once 
more,  — just  once  ?  I  want  you  to  go  home  in  the  car 
riage.  It  is  a  terribly  cold  day,  and  the  streets  are  very 
icy.  I  nearly  fell  several  times  myself  coming  over  here. 


230  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

You  will  certainly  take  a  terrible  cold,  if  you  walk  this 
morning.     Please  say  I  may  get  the  carriage." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Bless  my  soul,  child !  Go  get  it  then,  if 
you  care  so  much ;  but  tell  him  I  '11  only  pay  a  quarter, 

—  only  a  quarter,  remember.     They  'd  take  every  cent 
I  Ve  got.     They  are  all  wolves,  wolves,  wolves ! " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  tell  him  only  a  quarter.  I  '11  have  him 
here  in  a  few  minutes !  "  exclaimed  Mercy,  and  ran  out 
of  the  room  hastily  before  the  old  man  could  change 
his  mind. 

As  good  luck  would  have  it,  Seth  and  his  "  kerridge  " 
were  in  sight  when  Mercy  reached  the  foot  of  the  stair 
case.  So  in  less  than  five  minutes  she  returned  to  the 
garret,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Here  is  Seth  now,  Mr.  Wheeler.  It  is  so  fortunate 
I  met  him.  Now  I  can  see  you  off."  The  old  man  was 
so  weak  that  his  son  had  to  carry  him  down  the  stairs  j 
and  his  face,  seen  in  the  broad  daylight,  was  ghastly. 
As  they  placed  him  in  the  carriage,  he  called  out  to  his 
wife  and  son,  sharply,  — 

"  Don't  you  get  in !  You  can  walk,  you  can  walk. 
Mind,  he  's  to  have  but  a  quarter,  tell  him."  And,  as 
Seth  whipped  up  his  horses  and  drove  off,  the  words, 
"  wolves,  wolves,  wolves,"  were  heard  coming  in  muffled 
tones  through  the  door. 

"  He  'd  never  have  gone,  if  you  hadn't  come  back, 

—  never,"  said  Mrs.  Wheeler,  as  she  turned  to  Mercy. 
"  I  never  can  thank  you  enough.     It  '11  save  his  life, 
getting  him  out  of  that  garret." 

Mercy  did  not  say,  but  she  thought  that  it  was  too 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


late.  A  mortal  sickness  had  fastened  upon  the  old  man  \ 
and  so  it  proved.  When  she  went  to  his  home  the  next 
day,  he  was  in  a  high  fever  and  delirious  ;  and  he  lived 
only  a  few  days.  He  had  intervals  of  partial  conscious 
ness,  and  in  those  he  seemed  to  be  much  touched  by 
the  patient  care  which  his  two  sons  were  giving  to  him. 
He  had  always  been  a  hard  father  ;  had  compelled  his 
sons  very  early  to  earn  their  own  living,  and  had  re 
fused  to  give  them  money,  which  he  could  so  easily 
have  spared,  to  establish  themselves  in  business.  Now, 
that  it  was  too  late,  he  repented. 

"Good  boys,  good  boys,  good  boys  after  all,"  he 
would  mutter  to  himself,  as  they  bent  over  him,  and 
nuised  him  tenderly  in  his  helplessness.  "  Might  have 
left  them  more  money,  might  have  left  them  more. 
Mistake,  mistake  !  "  Once  he  roused,  and  with  great 
vehemence  asked  to  have  his  lawyer  sent  for  immedi 
ately.  But,  when  the  lawyer  came,  the  delirium  had 
returned  again  :  it  was  too  late  ;  and  the  old  man  died 
without  repairing  the  injustice  he  had  done.  The  last 
intelligible  words  he  spoke  were,  "  Mistake  !  mistake  !  " 

And  he  had  indeed  made  a  mistake.  When  his  will 
was  opened,  it  was  found  that  the  whole  bulk  of  his 
large  estate  had  been  left  to  trustees,  to  be  held  as  a 
fund  for  assisting  poor  young  men  to  a  certain  amount 
of  capital  to  go  into  business  with,  —  the  very  thing 
which  he  had  never  done  for  his  own  children.  The 
trust  was  burdened  with  such  preposterous  conditions, 
however,  that  it  never  could  have  amounted  to  any 
thing,  even  if  the  courts  had  not  come  to  the  rescue, 


232  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE 

and  mercifully  broken  the  will,  dividing  the  property 
where  it  rightfully  belonged,  between  the  wife  and  chil 
dren. 

Early  in  February  Mrs.  Carr  died.  It  was  more  like 
a  going  to  sleep  than  like  a  death.  She  lay  for  two  days 
in  a  dozing  state,  smiling  whenever  Mercy  spoke  to  her, 
and  making  great  efforts  to  swallow  food  whenever 
Mercy  offered  it  to  her.  At  last  she  closed  her  eyes, 
turned  her  head  on  one  side,  as  if  for  a  sounder  sleep, 
and  never  moved  again. 

However  we  may  think  we  are  longing  for  the 
release  from  suffering  to  come  to  one  we  love,  when 
it  does  come,  it  is  a  blow,  is  a  shock.  Hundreds 
of  times  Mercy  had  said  to  herself  in  the  course 
of  the  winter,  "  Oh,  if  God  would  only  take  my  mother 
to  heaven !  Her.  death  would  be  easier  to  bear  than 
this."  But  now  she  would  have  called  her  back,  if 
she  could.  The  silent  house,  the  empty  room,  still 
more  terrible  the  long  empty  hours  in  which  nobody 
needed  her  help,  all  wrung  Mercy's  heart.  It  was  her 
first  experience  of  being  alone.  She  had  often  pictured 
to  herself,  or  rather  she  thought  she  had,  what  it  would 
be ;  but  no  human  imagination  can  ever  sound  the 
depths  of  that  word  :  only  the  heart  can  feel  it.  It  is  a 
marvel  that  hearts  do  not  break  under  it  oftener  than 
they  do.  The  silence  which  is  like  that  darkness  which 
could  be  felt ;  the  sudden  awakening  in  the  night  with 
a  wonder  what  it  means  that  the  loved  one  is  not  there ; 
the  pitiless  morning  light  which  fills  the  empty  house, 
room  after  room ;  and  harder  than  all  else  to  forget,  to 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  233 

rise  above  —  the  perpetual  sense  of  no  future  :  even  the 
little  near  futures  of  the  next  hour,  the  next  day,  all 
cut  off,  all  closed,  to  the  human  being  left  utterly  alone. 
The  mockery  of  the  instincts  of  hunger  and  need  of 
rest  seems  cruel.  What  a  useless  routine,  for  one  left 
alone,  to  be  fed,  to  sleep,  and  to  rise  up  to  eat  and  sleep 
again  ! 

Mercy  bore  all  this  in  a  sort  of  dumb  bewilderment 
for  a  few  days.  All  Stephen's  love  and  sympathy  did 
not  help  her.  He  was  unutterably  tender  and  sympa 
thizing  now  that  poor  old  Mrs.  Carr  was  fairly  out  of 
his  way.  It  surprised  even  himself  to  see  what  a  sort 
of  respectful  affection  he  felt  for  her  in  her  grave.  Any 
misgiving  that  this  new  quiet  and  undisturbed  posses 
sion  of  Mercy  might  not  continue  did  not  cross  his 
mind  ;  and  when  Mercy  said  to  him  suddenly,  one  even 
ing  about  ten  days  after  her  mother's  death,  "  Stephen, 
I  must  go  away,  I  can't  live  in  this  house  another 
week,"  it  was  almost  as  sudden  a  shock  to  him  as  if 
he  had  gone  in  and  found  her  dead. 

"  Go  away !  Leave  me  ! "  he  gasped,  rather  than  said. 
"  Mercy,  you  can't  mean  it  1 "  and  the  distress  in  his  face 
smote  Mercy  bitterly.  But  she  persisted.  "  Yes,  I  do 
mean  it,"  she  said.  "  You  must  not  ask  me  to  stay.  I 
shoald  lose  my  senses  or  fall  ill.  You  can't  think  how 
terrible  it  is  to  me  to  be  all  alone  in  these  rooms.  Per 
haps  in  new  rooms  I  should  not  feel  it  so  much.  I  have 
always  looked  forward  to  being  left  alone  at  some  time, 
and  have  thought  I  would  still  have  my  home ;  but  I  did 
not  think  it  could  feel  like  this.  I  simply  cannot  bear 


234  MERCY  PIULBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

it,  —  at  any  rate,  not  till  I  am  stronger.  And  besides, 
Stephen,"  and  Mercy's  face  flushed  red,  "  there  is  an 
other  thing  you  have  not  thought  of  :  it  would  never  do 
for  me  to  live  here  alone  in  this  house  with  you,  as  we 
have  been  living.  You  couldn't  come  to  see  me  so 
much  now  mother  is  not  here." 

Poor  Mrs.  Carr !  avenged  at  last  by  Stephen's  own 
heart.  How  gladly  would  he  have  called  her  to  life 
now !  Mercy's  words  carried  instantaneous  conviction 
to  his  mind.  It  was  strange  he  had  never  thought  of 
this  before  ;  but  he  had  not.  He  groaned  aloud. 

"  O  Mercy !  O  Mercy !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  nevei 
once  thought  of  that,  we  have  been  living  so  so  long. 
You  are  right :  you  cannot  stay  here.  Oh,  what  shall  I 
do  without  you,  my  darling,  my  darling?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  you  can  ever  be  so  lonely  as  I,"  said 
Mercy ;  "  for  you  have  still  your  work  left  you  to  do. 
If  I  had  any  human  being  to  need  me,  1  could  bear 
being  separated  from  you." 

"  Where  will  you  go,  Mercy  ?  "  asked  Stephen,  in  a 
tone  of  dull,  hopeless  misery. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  not  thought  yet.  Back  to 
my  old  home  for  a  visit,  I  think,  and  then  to  some  city 
to  study  and  work.  That  is  the  best  life  for  me." 

"  O  Mercy,  Mercy,  I  am  going  to  lose  you,  —  lose 
you  utterly !  "  exclaimed  Stephen. 

Mercy  looked  at  him  with  a  pained  and  perplexed 
expression.  "  Stephen,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  I  can't 
understand  you.  You  bear  your  hard  life  so  uncom 
plainingly,  so  bravely,  that  it  seems  as  if  you  could  not 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  235 

have  a  vestige  of  selfishness  in  you  ;  and  yet  "  —  Mercy 
halted ;  she  could  not  put  her  thought  in  words.  Ste 
phen  finished  it  for  her. 

"And  yet,"  he  said,  "I  am  selfish  about  you,  you 
think.  Selfish  !  Good  God !  do  you  call  it  selfishness 
in  a  man  who  is  drowning,  to  try  to  swim,  in  a  man 
who  is  starving,  to  clutch  a  morsel  of  bread  ?  What  else 
have  I  that  one  could  call  life  except  you  ?  Tell  me, 
Mercy !  You  are  my  life :  that  is  the  whole  of  it.  All 
that  a  man  has  he  will  give  for  his  life.  Is  it  selfish 
ness  ? "  Stephen  locked  his  hands  tight  together,  and 
looked  at  Mercy  almost  angrily.  She  was  writhing 
under  his.  words.  She  had  always  an  unspeakable 
dread  of  being  unjust  to  him.  Love  made  her  infinitely 
tender,  and  pity  made  her  yearn  over  him.  But  neither 
her  own  love  and  pity  nor  his  passionate  words  could 
wholly  blind  her  now ;  and  there  was  a  sadness  in  the 
tones  in  which  she  replied,  — 

"  No,  Stephen,  I  did  not  mean  to  call  you  selfish ;  but 
I  can't  understand  why  you  are  not  as  brave  and  patient 
about  all  hard  things  as  you  are  about  the  one  hardest 
thing  of  all." 

"  Mercy,  would  you  marry  me  now,  if  I  asked  you  ?  " 
said  Stephen.  He  did  not  realize  the  equivocal  form  of 
his  question.  An  indignant  look  swept  over  Mercy's 
face  for  a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment.  She  knew 
Stephen's  love  too  well. 

"  No,  Stephen,"  she  said,  "  I  would  not.  If  you  had 
asked  me  at  first,  I  should  have  done  it.  I  thought  then 
that  it  would  be  best,"  she  said,  with  hot  blushes  mount 


236  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

ing  high  on  her  cheeks  ;  "  but  I  have  seen  since  that  it 
would  not." 

Stephen  sighed.  "  I  am  glad  you  see  that,"  he  said. 
Then  in  a  lower  tone,  "  You  know  you  are  free,  Mercy,  — 
utterly  free.  I  would  never  be  so  base  as  to  hold  you 
by  a  word  ' 

Mercy  smiled  half-bitterly,  as  she  replied,  — 

"  Words  never  hold  people,  and  you  know  very  well 
it  is  only  an  empty  form  of  words  to  say  that  I  am  free. 
I  do  not  want  to  be  free,  darling,"  she  added,  in  a  burst 
of  tenderness  toward  him.  "  You  could  not  set  me  free, 
if  you  tried." 

When  Mercy  told  Parson  Dorrance  her  intention  of 
going  away,  his  face  changed  as  if  some  fierce  spasm 
wrung  him ;  but  it  was  over  in  a  second,  and  he  said,  — 

"  You  are  quite  right,  my  child,  —  quite  right.  It  will 
be  a  great  deal  better  for  you  in  every  way.  This  is  no 
place  for  you  now.  You  must  have  at  least  a  year  or 
two  of  travel  and  entire  change." 

In  her  heart,  Mercy  contrasted  the  replies  of  her  two 
lovers.  She  could  not  banish  the  feeling  that  one  was 
the  voice  of  a  truer  love  than  the  other.  She  fought 
against  the  feeling  as  against  a  treason ;  but  the  truth 
was  strongest.  In  her  heart,  she  knew  that  the  man  she 
did  not  love  was  manlier  than  the  man  she  loved. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  237 


CHAPTER   XL 

'I_pOR  the  first  few  months  after  Mercy  went  away, 
•*-  Stephen  seemed  to  himself  to  be  like  an  automa 
ton,  which  had  been  wound  up  to  go  through  certain 
movements  for  a  certain  length  of  time,  and  could  by 
no  possibility  stop.  He  did  not  suffer  as  he  had  ex 
pected.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  did  not 
suffer  at  all ;  and  he  was  terrified  at  this  very  absence 
of  suffering.  Then  again  he  had  hours  and  days  of  a 
dull  despair,  which  was  worse  than  any  more  active  form 
of  suffering.  Now  he  understood,  he  thought,  how  in 
the  olden  time  men  had  often  withdrawn  themselves 
from  the  world  after  some  great  grief,  and  had  lived 
long,  stagnant  lives  in  deserts  and  caves.  He  had 
thought  it  would  kill  him  to  lose  Mercy  out  of  his  life. 
Now  he  felt  sure  that  he  should  live  to  be  a  hundred 
years  old ;  should  live  by  very  help  of  the  apathy  into 
which  he  had  sunk.  Externally,  he  seemed  very  little 
changed,  —  a  trifle  quieter,  perhaps,  and  gentler.  His 
mother  sometimes  said  to  herself,  — 

"  Steve  is  really  getting  old  very  fast  for  so  young  a 
man ; "  but  she  was  content  with  the  change.  It  seemed 
to  bring  them  nearer  together,  and  made  her  feel  more  at 
ease  as  to  the  possibility  of  his  falling  in  love.  Her  old 
suspicions  and  jealousies  of  Mercy  had  died  out  root 


238  MERCY  PH1LBRICICS  CHOICE. 

and  branch,  within  three  months  after  her  departure, 
Stephen's  unhesitating  assurance  to  her  that  he  did  not 
expect  to  write  to  Mercy  had  settled  the  question  in  her 
mind  once  for  all.  If  she  had  known  that  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  uttered  these  words  he  had  one  long 
letter  from  Mercy  and  another  to  her  lying  in  his  pocket, 
the  shock  might  well-nigh  have  killed  her ;  for  never 
once  in  Mrs.  White's  most  jealous  and  ill-natured  hours 
had  the  thought  crossed  her  mind  that  her  son  would 
tell  her  a  deliberate  lie.  He  told  it,  however,  unflinch 
ingly,  in  as  gentle  and  even  a  tone  and  with  as  unruffled 
a  brow  as  he  would  have  bade  her  good-morning.  He 
had  thought  the  whole  matter  over,  and  deliberately 
resolved  to  do  it.  He  did  it  to  save  her  from  pain ;  and 
he  had  no  more  compunction  about  it  than  he  would 
have  had  about  closing  a  blind,  to  shut  out  a  sunlight 
too  strong  for  her  eyes.  What  a  terrible  thing  is  the 
power  which  human  beings  have  of  deceiving  each 
other  1  Woe  to  any  soul  which  trusts  itself  to  any  thing 
less  than  an  organic  integrity  of  nature,  to  which  a  lie 
is  impossible  J 

Mercy's  letters  disappointed  Stephen.  They  were 
loving;  but  they  were  concise,  sensible,  sometimes 
merry,  and  always  cheerful.  Her  life  was  constantly 
broadening ;  friends  crowded  around  her ;  and  her  art 
was  becoming  more  and  more  to  her  every  day.  Her 
name  was  beginning  to  be  known,  and  her  influence  felt. 
Her  verses  were  simple,  and  went  to  people's  hearts. 
They  were  also  of  a  fine  and  subtle  flavor,  and  gave 
pleasure  to  the  intellect.  Strangers  began  to  write 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  239 

words  of  encouragement  to  her,  —  sometimes  a  word  of 
gratitude  for  help,  sometimes  a  word  of  hearty  praise. 
She  began  to  feel  that  she  had  her  own  circle  of  listen 
ers,  unknown  friends,  who  were  always  ready  to  hear  her 
when  she  spoke.  This  consciousness  is  a  most  exqui 
site  happiness  to  a  true  artist:  it  is  a  better  stimulus 
than  all  the  flattering  criticism  in  the  world  can  give. 

She  was  often  touched  to  tears  by  the  tributes  she 
received  from  these  unknown  friends.  They  had  a  wide 
range,  coming  sometimes  from  her  fellow-artists  in  litera 
ture,  sometimes  from  lowly  and  uncultured  people.  Once 
there  came  to  her  by  mail,  on  a  sheet  of  coarse  paper, 
two  faded  roses,  fragrant,  —  for  they  were  cinnamon 
roses,  whose  fragrance  never  dies,  —  but  yellow  and 
crumpled,  for  they  had  journeyed  many  days  to  reach 
her.  They  were  tied  together  by  a  bit  of  blue  yarn , 
and  on  the  paper  was  written,  in  ill-spelt  words,  "I 
wanted  to  send  you  something ;  and  these  were  all  I 
had.  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  very  poor.  You  Ve 
helped  me  ever  so  much." 

Another  gift  was  a  moss  basket  filled  with  arbutus 
blossoms.  Hid  away  in  the  leaves  was  a  tiny  paper,  on 
which  were  written  some  graceful  verses,  evidently  by  a 
not  unpractised  hand.  The  signature  was  in  in'tials 
unknown  to  Mercy  ;  but  she  hazarded  a  guess  as  to  the 
authorship,  and  sent  the  following  verses  in  reply:  — 

TO   E.   B. 

At  night,  the  stream  came  to  the  sea. 

"  Long  leagues,"  it  cried,  "  this  drop  I  bring, 


240  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

O  beauteous,  boundless  sea  ! 
What  is  the  meagre,  paltry  thing 

In  thine  abundance  unto  thee  ? 
No  ripple,  in  thy  smallest  wave,  of  me 
Will  know !     No  thirst  its  suffering 
Shall  better  slake  for  my  surrendering 

My  life  !     O  sea,  in  vain 

My  leagues  of  toil  and  pain  ! " 

At  night,  wayfarers  reached  the  sea. 

"  Long  weary  leagues  we  came,"  they  cried, 
"  O  beauteous,  boundless  sea  ! 

The  swelling  waves  of  thy  swift  tide 
Break  on  the  shores  where  souls  are  free  : 
Through  lonely  wildernesses,  unto  thee 
One  tiny  stream  has  been  our  guide, 
And  in  the  desert  we  had  died, 
If  its  oases  sweet 
Had  not  refreshed  our  feet." 

O  tiny  stream,  lost  in  the  sea, 

Close  symbol  of  a  lifetime's  speech  ! 
O  beauteous,  boundless  sea, 

Close  fitting  symbol  of  the  reach 

Of  measureless  Eternity  ! 
Be  glad,  O  stream,  O  sea,  blest  equally ! 
And  thou  whose  words  have  helped  to  teach 
Me  this,  —  my  unknown  friend,  —  for  each 
Kind  thought,  warm  thanks. 

Only  the  stream  can  know 
How  at  such  words  the  long  leagues  lighter  grow. 

All  these  new  interests  and  occupations,  while  they 
did  not  in  the  least  weaken  her  loyalty  to  Stephen,  filled 
her  thoughts  healthfully  and  absorbingly,  and  left  her 
no  roorr  for  any  such  passionate  longing  and  brooding 


MERCY  P HI LB RICK'S   CHOICE.  241 

as  Stephen  poured  out  to  her  in  his  letters.  He  looked 
in  vain  for  any  response  to  these  expressions.  Some 
times,  unable  to  bear  the  omission  any  longer,  he  would 
ask  her  pathetically  why  she  did  not  say  that  she  longed 
to  see  him.  Her  reply  was  characteristic  :  — 

"  You  ask  me,  dear,  why  I  do  not  say  that  I  long  to 
see  you.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  do  long,  in  the  sense 
in  which  you  use  the  word.  I  know  that  I  cannot  see 
you  till  next  winter,  just  as  I  used  to  know  every  morn 
ing  that  I  could  not  see  you  until  night ;  and  the  months 
between  now  and  then  seem  to  me  one  solid  interval  of 
time  to  be  rilled  up  and  made  the  most  of,  just  as  the 
interval  of  the  daytime  between  your  going  away  in  the 
morning  and  coming  home  at  night  used  to  seem  to  me. 
I  do  not  think,  dear  Stephen,  there  is  a  moment  of  any 
day  when  I  have  not  an  under  current  of  consciousness 
of  you ;  but  it  is  not  a  longing  for  the  sight  of  you.  Are 
you  sure,  darling,  that  the  love  which  takes  perpetual 
shape  in  such  longings  is  the  strongest  love  ? " 

Little  by  little,  phrases  like  this  sank  into  Stephen's 
mind,  and  gradually  crystallized  into  a  firm  conviction 
that  Mercy  was  being  weaned  from  him.  It  was  not  so. 
It  was  only  that  separation  and  its  surer  tests  were  ad 
justing  to  a  truer  level  the  relation  between  them.  She 
did  not  love  him  one  whit  less ;  but  she  was  taking 
the  position  which  belonged  to  her  stronger  and  finer 
organization.  If  she  had  ever  lived  by  his  side  as  his 
wife,  the  same  change  would  have  come ;  but  her  never- 
failing  tenderness  would  have  effectually  covered  it  from 
his  recognition,  and  hid  it  from  her  own,  so  long  as  he 
ii  p 


242  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

looked  into  her  eyes  with  pleading  love,  and  she  answered 
with  woman's  fondness.  No  realization  of  inequality 
could  ever  have  come.  It  is,  after  all,  the  flesh  and 
blood  of  the  loved  one  which  we  idealize.  There  is 
in  love's  sacraments  a  "  real  presence,"  which  handling 
cannot  make  us  doubt.  It  is  when  we  go  apart  and 
reflect  that  our  reason  asks  questions.  Mercy  did  not 
in  the  least  know  that  she  was  outgrowing  Stephen 
White.  She  did  not  in  the  least  suspect  that  her  affec 
tion  and  her  loyalty  were  centring  around  an  ideal  per 
sonality,  to  which  she  gave  his  name,  but  which  had  in 
reality  never  existed.  She  believed  honestly  that  she 
was  living  for  and  in  Stephen  all  this  time ;  that  she 
was  his,  as  he  was  hers,  inalienably  and  for  ever.  If  it 
had  been  suggested  to  her  that  it  was  unnatural  that  she 
should  be  so  content  in  a  daily  life  which  he  did  not 
share,  so  busy  and  glad  in  occupations  and  plans  and 
aspirations  into  which  he  did  not  enter,  she  would  have 
been  astonished.  She  would  have  said,  "  How  foolish 
of  me  to  do  otherwise  !  We  have  our  lives  to  lead,  our 
work  to  do.  It  would  be  a  sin  to  waste  one's  life,  to 
leave  one's  work  undone,  because  of  the  mere  lack  of 
seeing  any  one  human  being,  however  dear."  Stephen 
knew  love  better  than  this :  he  knew  that  life  without 
the  daily  sight  of  Mercy  was  a  blank  drudgery  ;  that, 
day  by  day,  month  by  month,  he  was  growing  duller  and 
duller,  and  more  and  more  lifeless,  as  if  his  very  blood 
were  being  impoverished  by  lack  of  nourishment.  Surely 
it  was  a  hard  fate  which  inflicted  on  this  man,  already 
so  overburdened,  the  perpetual  pain  of  a  love  denied, 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  243 

thwarted,  unhappy.  Surely  it  was  a  brave  thing  in 
him  to  bear  the  double  load  uncomplainingly,  to  make 
no  effort  to  throw  it  off,  and  never  by  a  word  or  a  look 
to  visit  his  own  sufferings  on  the  head  of  the  helpless 
creature,  who  seemed  to  be  the  cause  of  them  all.  If 
there  were  any  change  in  his  manner  toward  his  mother 
during  these  months,  it  was  that  he  grew  tenderer  and 
more  demonstrative  to  her.  There  were  even  times 
when  he  kissed  her,  solely  from  the  yearning  need  he 
felt  to  kiss  something  human,  he  so  longed  for  one 
touch  of  Mercy's  hand.  He  would  sometimes  ask  her 
wistfully,  "  Do  I  make  you  happy,  mother  ? "  And  she 
would  be  won  upon  and  softened  by  the  words ;  when 
in  reality  they  were  only  the  outcry  of  the  famished  heart 
which  needed  some  reassurance  that  its  sacrifices  had 
not  been  all  in  vain. 

Month  after  month  went  on,  and  no  tenants  came  foi 
the  "  wing."  Stephen  even  humiliated  himself  so  far  as 
to  offer  it  to  Jane  Barker's  husband  at  a  lowered  rent ; 
but  his  offer  was  surlily  rejected,  and  he  repented  hav 
ing  made  it.  Very  bitterly  he  meditated  on  the  strange 
isolation  into  which  he  and  his  mother  were  forced. 
His  sympathies  were  not  broad  and  general  enough  to 
comprehend  it.  He  did  not  know  how  quickly  all 
people  feel  an  atmosphere  of  withdrawal,  an  air  of  in 
difference.  If  Stephen  had  been  rich  and  powerful,  the 
world  would  have  forgiven  him  these  traits,  or  have 
smothered  its  dislike  of  them  ;  but  in  a  poor  man,  and 
an  obscure  one,  such  "  airs  "  were  not  to  be  tolerated. 
Nobody  would  live  in  the  "  wing."  And  so  it  came  to 


244  MERCY  PHILBRICICS   CHOICE. 

pass  that  one  day  Stephen  wrote  to  Mercy  the  following 
letter :  — 

"  You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  I  have  had  to  fore 
close  the  mortgage  on  this  house.  It  was  impossible  to 
get  a  tenant  for  the  other  half  of  it,  and  there  was  noth 
ing  else  to  be  done.  The  house  must  be  sold,  but  I 
doubt  if  it  brings  the  full  amount  of  the  loan.  I  should 
have  done  this  three  months  ago,  except  for  your  strong 
feeling  against  it.  I  am  very  sorry  for  old  Mrs.  Jacobs ; 
but  it  is  her  misfortune,  not  my  fault.  I  have  my  mother 
to  provide  for,  and  my  first  duty  is  to  her.  Of  course, 
Mrs.  Jacobs  will  now  have  to  go  to  the  alms-house  •  but  I 
am  not  at  all  sure  that  she  will  not  be  more  comfortable 
there  than  she  has  made  herself  in  the  cottage.  She 
has  starved  herself  all  these  years.  Some  people  say 
she  must  have  a  hoard  of  money  there  somewhere, 
that  she  cannot  have  spent  even  the  little  she  has  re 
ceived. 

"  I  shall  move  out  of  the  house  at  once,  into  the  little 
cottage  you  liked  so  much,  farther  up  on  the  hill.  That 
is  for  rent,  only  fifty  dollars  a  year.  I  shall  put  this 
house  into  good  repair,  run  a  piazza  around  it  as  you 
suggested,  and  paint  it ;  and  then  I  think  I  shall  be  sure 
of  finding  a  purchaser.  It  can  be  made  a  very  pretty 
house  by  expending  a  little  money  on  it ;  and  I  can  sell 
it  for  enough  more  to  repay  me.  I  am  sure  nobody 
would  buy  it  as  it  is." 

Mercy  replied  very  briefly  to  this  part  of  Stephen's 
letter.  She  had  discussed  the  question  with  him  often 
before,  and  she  knew  the  strict  justice  of  his  claim; 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  24$ 

but  her  heart  ached  for  the  poor  friendless  old  woman, 
who  was  thus  to  lose  her  last  dollar.  If  it  had  been 
possible  for  Mercy  to  have  continued  to  pay  the  rent  of 
the  wing  herself,  she  would  gladly  have  done  so  ;  but, 
at  her  suggestion  of  such  a  thing,  Stephen  had  been  so 
angry  that  she  had  been  almost  frightened. 

"  I  am  not  so  poor  yet,  Mercy,"  he  had  exclaimed,  "  as 
to  take  charity  from  you !  I  think  I  should  go  to  the 
alms-house  myself  first.  I  don't  see  why  old  Granny 
Jacobs  is  so  much  to  you,  any  way." 

"  Only  because  she  is  so  absolutely  friendless, 
Stephen,"  Mercy  had  replied  gently.  "  I  never  before 
knew  of  anybody  who  had  not  a  relative  or  a  friend  in 
the  world ;  and  I  am  afraid  they  are  cruel  to  the  poor 
people  at  the  alms-house.  They  all  look  so  starved 
and  wretched ! " 

"  Well,  it  will  be  no  more  than  she  deserves,"  said 
Stephen  ; "  "  for  she  was  cruel  to  her  husband's  brother's 
wife.  I  used  to  hear  horrid  stories,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
about  how  she  drove  them  out  of  the  house ;  and  she 
was  cruel  to  her  son  too,  and  drove  him  away  from  home. 
Of  course,  I  am  sorry  to  be  the  instrument  of  punishing 
her,  and  I  do  have  a  certain  pity  for  the  old  woman ; 
but  it  is  really  her  own  fault.  She  might  be  living  now 
in  comfort  with  her  son,  perhaps,  if  she  had  treated  him 
well." 

"We  can't  go  by  such  'ifs'  in  this  world,  Steve," 
said  Mercy,  earnestly.  "  We  have  to  take  things  as  they 
are.  I  don't  want  to  be  judged  way  back  in  my  life. 
Only  God  knows  all  the  '  ifs.' "  Such  conversations  as 


246  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

these  had  prepared  Mercy  for  the  news  which  Stephen 
now  wrote  her ;  but  they  had  in  no  wise  changed  her 
feeling  in  regard  to  it.  She  believed  in  the  bottom  of 
her  heart  that  Stephen  might  have  secured  a  tenant,  if 
he  had  tried.  He  had  once,  in  speaking  of  the  matter, 
dropped  a  sentence  which  had  shocked  her  so  that  she 
could  never  forget  it. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  deal  better  for  me,"  he  had 
said,  "  to  have  the  money  invested  in  some  other  way. 
If  the  house  does  fall  into  my  hands,  I  shall  sell  it ;  and, 
even  if  I  don't  get  the  full  amount  of  what  father  loaned, 
I  shall  make  it  bring  us  in  a  good  deal  more  than  it  does 
this  way." 

This  sentence  rang  in  Mercy's  ears,  as  she  read  in 
Stephen's  letter  all  his  plans  for  improving  the  house ; 
but  the  thing  was  done,  and  it  was  not  Mercy's  habit  to 
waste  effort  or  speech  over  things  which  could  not  be 
altered. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  wrote,  "  that  you  have  been 
obliged  to  take  the  house.  You  know  how  I  always 
felt  for  poor  old  Granny  Jacobs.  Perhaps  we  can  do 
something  to  make  her  more  comfortable  in  the  alma- 
house.  I  think  Lizzy  could  manage  that  for  us." 

And  in  her  own  mind  Mercy  resolved  that  the  old 
woman  should  never  lack  for  food  and  fire,  however 
unwilling  the  overseers  might  be  to  permit  her  to  have 
unusual  comforts. 

Stephen's  next  letter  opened  with  these  words: 
"  O  Mercy,  I  have  such  a  strange  thing  to  tell  you.  I 
am  so  excited  I  can  hardly  find  words.  I  have  found  a 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  247 

lot  of  monej  in  your  old  fireplace.  Just  think  of  our 
having  sat  there  so  quietly  night  after  night,  within 
hands'  reach  of  it,  all  last  winter !  And  how  lucky  that 
I  found  it,  instead  of  any  of  the  workmen  !  They  i.  have 
pocketed  it,  and  never  said  a  word." 

"  To  be  sure  they  would,"  thought  Mercy,  "  and  poor 
old  Granny  Jacobs  would  have  been"  —  she  was  about 
to  think,  "  cheated  out  of  her  rights  again,"  but  with 
a  pang  she  changed  the  phrase  into  "  none  the  better 
off  for  it.  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  for  the  poor  old  thing  I 
People  always  said  her  husband  must  have  hid  money 
away  somewhere." 

Mercy  read  on.  "I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  the 
house  done  before  the  snow  came  that  I  took  hold  my 
self,  and  worked  every  night  and  morning  before  the 
workmen  came ;  and,  after  they  had  gone,  I  found  this 
last  night,  and  I  declare,  Mercy,  I  haven't  shut  my  eyes 
all  night  long.  It  seems  to  me  too  good  to  be  true.  I 
think  there  must  be  as  much  as  three  thousand  dollars, 
all  in  solid  gold.  Some  of  the  coins  I  don't  know  the 
value  of ;  but  the  greater  proportion  of  them  are  Eng 
lish  sovereigns.  Of  course  rich  people  wouldn't  think 
this  such  a  very  big  sum,  but  you  and  I  know  how  far  a 
little  can  go  for  poor  people." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  thought  Mercy.  "  Why,  it  will  make 
the  poor  old  woman  perfectly  comfortable  all  her  life  : 
it  will  give  her  more  than  she  had  from  the  house."  And 
Mercy  laid  the  letter  in  her  lap  and  fell  into  a  reverie, 
thinking  how  strange  it  was  that  this  good  fortune  should 
have  come  about  by  means  of  an  act  which  had  seemed 
to  he:  cruel  on  Stephen's  part. 


248  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

She  took  the  letter  up  again.  It  continued :  "  O 
Mercy,  my  darling,  do  you  suppose  you  can  realize  what 
this  sudden  lift  is  to  me  ?  All  my  life  I  have  found  our 
poverty  so  hard  to  bear,  and  these  latter  years  I  have 
bitterly  felt  the  hardship  of  being  unable  to  go  out  into 
the  world  and  make  my  fortune  as  other  men  do,  as  I 
think  I  might,  if  I  were  free.  But  this  sum,  small  as  it 
is,  will  be  a  nucleus,  I  feel  sure  it  will,  of  a  competency 
at  least.  I  know  of  several  openings  where  I  can  place 
it  most  advantageously.  O  Mercy !  dear,  dear  Mercy  1 
what  hopes  spring  up  in  my  heart !  The  time  may  yet 
come  when  we  shall  build  up  a  lovely  home  together. 
Bless  old  Jacobs's  miserliness !  How  little  he  knew  what 
he  was  hoarding  up  his  gold  for ! " 

At  this  point,  Mercy  dropped  the  letter,  —  dropped  it 
as  if  it  had  been  a  viper  that  stung  her.  She  was  con 
scious  of  but  two  things  :  a  strange,"  creeping  cold  which 
seemed  to  be  chilling  her  to  the  very  marrow  of  her 
bones ;  and  a  vague  but  terrible  sense  of  horror,  men 
tally.  The  letter  fell  to  the  floor.  She  did  not  observe 
it.  A  half-hour  passed,  and  she  did  not  know  that  it 
had  been  a  moment.  Gradually,  her  brain  began  to 
rouse  into  activity  again,  and  strove  confusedly  with  the 
thoughts  which  crowded  on  it. 

"That  would  be  stealing.  He  can't  mean  it.  Ste 
phen  can't  be  a  thief."  Half-formed,  incoherent  sen 
tences  like  these  floated  in  her  mind,  seemed  to  be 
floating  in  the  air,  pronounced  by  hissing  voices. 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  temples,  and  sprang  to 
her  feet.  The  letter  rustled  on  the  floor,  as  her  gown 


MERCY  PUlLbRlCK'S   CHOICE.  249 

swept  over  it.  She  turned  and  looked  at  it,  as  if  it  were 
a  living  thing  she  would  kill.  She  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
and  then  recoiled  from  it.  She  shrank  from  the  very 
paper.  All  the  vehemence  of  her  nature  was  roused. 
As  in  the  moment  of  drowning  people  are  said  to  re 
view  in  one  swift  flash  of  consciousness  their  whole 
lives,  so  now  in  this  moment  did  Mercy  look  back 
over  the  months  of  her  life  with  Stephen.  Her  sense  of 
the  baseness  of  his  action  now  was  like  a  lightning  illum 
ing  every  corner  of  the  past :  every  equivocation,  every 
concealment,  every  subterfuge  he  had  practised,  stood 
out  before  her,  bare,  stripped  of  every  shred  of  apology 
or  excuse.  "  He  lies  ;  he  has  always  lied.  Why  should 
he  not  steal  ? "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  only  another  form 
of  the  same  thing.  He  stole  me,  too ;  and  he  made  me 
steal  him.  He  is  dishonest  to  the  very  core.  How  did 
I  ever  love  such  a  man  ?  What  blinded  me  to  his  real 
nature  ? " 

Then  a  great  revulsion  of  feeling,  of  tenderness  to 
ward  Stephen,  would  sweep  over  her,  and  drown  all 
these  thoughts.  "O  my  poor,  brave,  patient  darling! 
He  never  meant  to  do  any  thing  wrong  in  his  life.  He 
does  not  see  things  as  I  do :  no  human  soul  could  see 
clearly,  standing  where  he  stands.  There  is  a  .moral 
warp  in  his  nature,  for  which  he  is  no  more  responsible 
than  a  tree  is  responsible  for  having  grown  into  a  crooked 
shape  when  it  was  broken  down  by  heavy  stones  while 
it  was  a  sapling.  Oh,  how  unjust  I  am  to  him  !  I  wiU 
never  think  such  thoughts  of  him  again.  My  darling, 
my  darling!  He  did  not  stop  to  think  in  his  excite- 
ii* 


250  MERCY  PHILBRICK'^   CHOICE. 

ment  that  the  money  was  not  his.  I  daresay  he  has 
already  seen  it  differently." 

Like  waves  breaking  on  a  beach,  and  rolling  back 
again  to  meet  higher  waves  and  be  swallowed  up  in 
them,  these  opposing  thoughts  and  emotions  struggled 
with  each  other  in  Mercy's  bosom.  Her  heart  and  her 
judgment  were  at  variance,  and  the  antagonism  was 
irreconcilable.  She  could  not  believe  that  her  lover 
was  dishonest.  She  could  not  but  call  his  act  a  theft. 
The  night  came  and  went,  and  no  lull  had  come  to  the 
storm  by  which  her  soul  was  tossed.  She  could  not 
sleep.  As  the  morning  dawned,  she  rose  with  haggard 
and  weary  eyes,  and  prepared  to  write  to  Stephen.  In 
some  of  her  calmer  intervals,  she  had  read  the  remain 
der  of  his  letter.  It  was  chiefly  filled  with  the  details  of 
the  manner  in  which  the  gold  had  been  hidden.  A 
second  fireplace  had  been  built  inside  the  first,  leaving  a 
space  of  several  inches  between  the  two  brick  walls. 
On  each  side  two  bricks  had  been  so  left  that  they 
could  be  easily  taken  out  and  replaced ;  and  the  bags  of 
gold  hung  upon  iron  stanchions  in  the  outer  wall. 
What  a  strange  picture  it  must  have  been  in  the  silent 
night  hours, — the  old  miser  bending  above  the  embers 
of  the  dying  fire  on  the  hearth,  and  reaching  down  the 
crevice  to  his  treasures!  The  bags  were  of  leather, 
curiously  embossed ;  they  were  almost  charred  by  the 
heat,  and  the  gold  was  dull  and  brown. 

"I  wonder  which  old  fellow  put  it  there?"  said 
Stephen,  at  the  end  of  his  letter.  "  Captain  John  would 
have  been  more  likely  to  have  foreign  gold ;  but  why 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


should  he  hide  it  in  his  brother's  fireplace  ?  At  any 
rate,  to  whichever  of  them  I  am  indebted  for  it,  I  am 
most  profoundly  grateful.  If  ever  I  meet  him  in  any 
world,  I  '11  thank  him." 

Suddenly  the  thought  occurred  to  Mercy,  "Perhaps 
old  Mrs.  Jacobs  is  dead.  Then  there  would  be  nobody 
who  had  any  right  to  the  money.  But  no  :  Stephen 
would  have  told  me  if  she  had  been." 

Still  she  clung  to  this  straw  of  a  hope  ;  and,  when  she 
sat  down  to  write  to  Stephen,  these  words  came  first  to 
her  pen  :  — 

"  Is  Mrs.  Jacobs  dead,  Stephen  ?  You  do  not  say 
any  thing  about  her  ;  but  I  cannot  imagine  your  thinking 
for  a  moment  of  keeping  that  money  for  yourself,  unless 
she  is  dead.  If  she  is  alive,  the  money  is  hers.  No 
body  but  her  husband  or  his  brother  could  have  put  it 
there.  Nobody  else  has  lived  in  the  house,  except  very 
poor  people.  Forgive  me,  dear,  but  perhaps  you  had 
not  thought  of  this  when  you  first  wrote  :  it  has  very 
likely  occurred  to  you  since  then,  and  I  may  be  making 
a  very  superfluous  suggestion."  So  hard  did  she  cling 
to  the  semblance  of  a  trust  that  all  would  yet  prove  to 
be  well  with  her  love  and  her  lover. 

Stephen's  reply  came  by  the  very  next  mail.  It  was 
short  :  it  ran  thus  :  — 

"  DEAR  DARLING,  —  I  do  not  know  what  to  make  of 
your  letter.  Your  sentence,  'I  cannot  imagine  your 
thinking  for  a  moment  of  keeping  that  money  for  your 
self,'  is  a  most  extraordinary  one.  What  do  you  mean 
by  '  keeping  it  for  myself  '  ?  It  is  mine  :  the  house  was 


252  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

mine  and  all  that  was  in  it.  Old  Mrs.  Jacobs  is  alive 
still,  at  least  she  was  last  week ;  but  she  has  no  more 
claim  on  that  money  than  any  other  old  woman  in  town. 
I  can't  suppose  you  would  think  me  a  thief,  Mercy;  but 
your  letter  strikes  me  as  a  very  strange  one.  Suppose 
I  were  to  discover  that  there  is  a  gold  mine  in  the  or 
chard,  —  stranger  things  than  that  have  happened,  — 
would  you  say  that  that  also  belonged  to  Mrs.  Jacobs 
and  not  to  me  ?  The  cases  are  precisely  parallel.  You 
have  allowed  your  impulsive  feeling  to  run  away  with 
your  judgment ;  and,  as  I  so  often  tell  you,  whenever 
you  do  that,  you  are  wrong.  I  never  thought,  however, 
it  would  carry  you  so  far  as  to  make  you  suspect  me  of 
a  dishonorable  act." 

Stephen  was  deeply  wounded.  Mercy's  attempted 
reticence  in  her  letter  had  not  blinded  him.  He  felt 
what  had  underlain  the  words,  and  it  was  a  hard  blow 
to  him.  His  conscience  was  as  free  from  any  shadow 
of  guilt  in  the  matter  of  that  money  as  if  it  had  been 
his  by  direct  inheritance  from  his  own  father.  Feeling 
this,  he  had  naturally  the  keenest  sense  of  outrage  at 
Mercy's  implied  accusation. 

Before  Stephen's  second  letter  came,  Mercy  had 
grown  calm.  The  more  she  thought  the  thing  over,  the 
more  she  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Jacobs  must  be  dead,  and 
that  Stephen  in  his  great  excitement  had  forgotten  to 
mention  the  fact.  Therefore  the  second  letter  was  even 
a  greater  blow  to  her  than  the  first :  it  was  a  second 
and  a  deeper  thrust  into  a  wound  which  had  hardly 
begun  to  heal.  There  was  also  a  tone  of  confident, 


MERCY  PniLBRiriCS   CHOICE.  2$$ 

almost  arrogant,  assumption  in  the  letter,  it  seemed  to 
Mercy,  which  irritated  her.  She  did  not  perceive  that 
it  was  the  inevitable  confidence  of  a  person  so  sure  he 
is  right  that  he  cannot  comprehend  any  doubt  in  an 
other's  mind  on  the  subject.  There  was  in  Meicy's 
nature  a  vein  of  intolerance,  which  was  capable  of  the 
most  terrible  severity.  She  was  as  blinded  to  Stephen's 
true  position  in  the  matter  as  he  was  to  hers.  The  final 
moment  of  divergence  had  come :  its  seeds  were  planted 
in  her  nature  and  in  Stephen's  when  they  were  born. 
Nothing  could  have  hindered  their  growth,  nothing 
could  have  forestalled  their  ultimate  result.  It  was 
only  a  question  of  time  and  of  occasion,  when  the  two 
forces  would  be  arrayed  against  each  other,  and  would 
be  found  equally  strong. 

Mercy  took  counsel  with  herself  now,  and  delayed 
answering  this  second  letter.  She  was  resolved  to  be 
just  to  Stephen. 

"  I  will  think  this  thing  over  and  over,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  till  I  am  sure  past  all  doubt  that  I  am  right, 
before  I  say  another  word." 

But  her  long  thinking  did  not  help  Stephen.  Each 
day  her  conviction  grew  deeper,  her  perception  clearer 
her  sense  of  alienation  from  Stephen  profounder.  If  a 
moral  antagonism  had  grown  up  between  them  in  any 
other  shape,  it  would  have  been  less  fatal  to  her  love. 
There  were  many  species  of  wrong-doing  which  would 
have  been  less  hateful  in  her  sight.  It  seemed  to  her 
sometimes  that  there  could  be  no  crime  in  the  world 
which  would  appear  to  her  so  odious  as  this.  Hei 


254  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

imagination  dwelt  on  the  picture  of  the  lonely  old 
woman  in  the  alms-house.  She  had  been  several  times 
to  see  Mrs.  Jacobs,  and  had  been  much  moved  by  a  cer 
tain  grim  stoicism  which  gave  almost  dignity  to  her 
squalor  and  wretchedness. 

"  She  always  had  the  bearing  of  a  person  who  knew 
she  was  suffering  wrongly,  but  was  too  proud  to  com 
plain,"  thought  Mercy.  "I  wonder  if  she  did  not  all 
along  believe  there  was  something  wrong  about  the 
mortgage?"  and  Mercy's  suspicious  thoughts  and  con 
jectures  ran  far  back  into  the  past,  fastening  on  the 
beginnings  of  all  this  trouble.  She  recollected  old  Mr. 
Wheeler's  warnings  about  Stephen,  in  the  first  weeks  of 
her  stay  in  Penfield.  She  recollected  Parson  Dorrance's 
expression,  when  he  found  out  that  she  had  paid  her 
rent  in  advance.  She  tortured  herself  by  reviewing 
minutely  every  little  manoeuvre  she  had  known  of 
Stephen's  practising  to  conceal  his  relation  with  her. 

Let  Mercy  once  distrust  a  person  in  one  particular, 
and  she  distrusted  him  in  all.  Let  one  act  of  his  life 
be  wrong,  and  she  believed  that  his  every  act  was  wrong 
in  motive,  or  in  relation  to  others,  however  specious  and 
fair  it  might  be  made  to  appear.  All  the  old  excuses 
and  apologies  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  making  for 
Stephen's  insincerities  to  his  mother  and  to  the  world 
seemed  to  her  now  less  than  nothing ;  and  she  wondered 
how  she  ever  could  have  held  them  as  sufficient.  In 
vain  her  heart  pleaded.  In  vain  tender  memories 
thrilled  her,  by  their  vivid  recalling  of  hours,  of  mo 
ments,  of  looks  and  words.  It  was  with  a  certain  sense 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  255 

of  remorse  that  she  dwelt  on  them,  of  shame  that  she 
was  conscious  of  clinging  to  them  still.  "  I  shall  always 
love  him,  I  am  afraid,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "  but  I  shall 
never  trust  him  again,  —  never ! " 

And  hour  by  hour  Stephen  was  waiting  and  looking 
for  his  letter. 


256  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OTEPHEN  took  Mercy's  letter  from  the  post-office 
v-^  at  night.  It  was  one  week  past  the  time  at  which 
it  would  have  reached  him,  if  it  had  been  written  imme 
diately  on  the  receipt  of  his.  Only  too  well  he  knew 
what  the  delay  meant.  He  turned  the  letter  over  and 
over  in  his  hand,  and  noted  without  surprise  it  was 
very  light.  The  superscription  was  written  with  unusual 
care.  Mercy's  handwriting  was  free  and  bold,  but  illegible, 
unless  she  made  a  special  effort  to  write  with  care ;  and 
she  never  made  that  effort  in  writing  to  Stephen.  How 
many  times  he  had  said  to  her :  "  Never  mind  how  you 
write  to  me,  dear.  I  read  your  sentences  by  another 
sense  than  the  sense  of  sight."  This  formally  and 
neatly  written  superscription  smote  him,  as  a  formal 
bow  and  a  chilling  glance  from  Mercy  would,  if  he  had 
passed  her  on  the  street. 

He  carried  the  letter  home  unopened.  All  through 
the  evening  it  lay  like  a  leaden  weight  in  his  bosom,  as 
he  sat  by  his  mother's  side.  He  dared  not  read  it  until 
he  was  sure  of  being  able  to  be  alone  for  hours.  At 
last  he  was  free.  As  he  went  upstairs  to  his  room,  he 
thought  to  himself,  "  This  is  the  hour  at  which  I  used 
to  fly  to  her,  and  find  such  welcome.  A  year  ago  to- 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


night  how  happy  we  were  !  "  With  a  strange  disposition 
to  put  off  the  opening  of  the  letter,  he  moved  about  his 
room,  rearranged  the  books,  lighted  an  extra  lamp,  and 
finally  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair,  and  leaning  both  his 
arms  on  the  table  looked  at  the  letter  lying  there  so 
white,  so  still.  He  felt  a  preternatural  consciousness  of 
what  was  in  it  ;  and  he  shrank  from  looking  at  the  words, 
as  a  condemned  prisoner  might  shrink  from  reading  his 
own  death-warrant.  The  room  was  bitterly  cold.  Fires 
in  bed-rooms  were  a  luxury  Stephen  had  never  known. 
As  he  sat  there,  his  body  and  heart  seemed  to  be  grow 
ing  numb  together.  At  last  he  said,  "I  may  as  well 
read  it,"  and  took  the  letter  up.  As  he  opened  it  and 
read  the  first  words,  "  My  darling  Stephen,"  his  heart 
gave  a  great  bound.  She  loved  him  still.  What  a  re 
prieve  in  that  !  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  love  can  be 
crueller  than  any  friendship,  than  any  indifference, 
than  any  hate  :  nothing  is  so  exacting,  so  inexorable,  as 
love.  The  letter  was  full  of  love  ;  but  it  was,  neverthe  • 
less,  hard  and  pitiless  in  its  tone.  Stephen  read  it  again 
and  again  :  then  he  held  it  in  the  flame  of  the  lamp, 
and  let  it  slowly  burn,  until  only  a  few  scorched  frag 
ments  remained.  These  he  folded  in  a  small  paper,  and 
put  into  his  pocket-book.  Why  he  did  this,  he  could 
not  tell,  and  wondered  at  himself  for  doing  it.  Then 
he  walked  the  room  for  an  hour  or  two,  revolving  in  his 
mind  what  he  should  say  to  Mercy.  His  ideas  arranged 
themselves  concisely  and  clearly.  He  had  been  stung 
by  Mercy's  letter  into  a  frame  of  feeling  hardly  less  inex 
orable  than  her  own.  He  said  to  himself,  "  She  never 
Q 


258  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


truly  loved  me,  or  nothing  under  heaven  could  make  her 
believe  me  capable  of  a  dishonesty;"  and,  in  midst  of 
all  his  pain  at  this  thought,  he  had  an  indignant  resent 
ment,  as  if  Mercy  herself  had  been  in  some  way  actively 
responsible  for  all  this  misery. 

His  letter  was  shorter  than  Mercy's.  They  were  sad, 
strange  letters  to  have  passed  between  lovers.  Mercy's 
ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  MY  DARLING  STEPHEN,  —  Your  letters  have  shocked 
me  so  deeply  that  I  find  myself  at  a  loss  for  words  in  which 
to  reply.  I  cannot  understand  your  present  position  at 
all.  I  have  waited  all  these  days,  hoping  that  some 
new  light  would  come  to  me,  that  I  could  see  the  whole 
thing  differently  ;  but  I  cannot.  On  the  contrary,  each 
hour  that  I  think  of  it  (and  I  have  thought  of  nothing 
else  since  your  second  letter  came)  only  makes  my  con 
viction  stronger.  Darling,  that  money  is  Mrs.  Jacobs's 
money,  by  every  moral  right.  You  may  be  correct  in 
your  statement  as  to  the  legal  rights  of  the  case.  I  take 
it  for  granted  that  you  are.  At  any  rate,  I  know  noth 
ing  about  that ;  and  I  rest  no  argument  upon  it  at  all. 
But  it  is  clear  as  daylight  to  me  that  morally  you 
are  bound  to  give  her  the  money.  Suppose  you  had 
had  permission  from  her  to  make  those  changes  in  the 
house,  while  you  were  still  her  tenant,  and  had  found  the 
money,  then  you  would  have  handed  it  to  her  unhesi 
tatingly.  Why  ?  Because  you  would  have  said,  '  This 
woman's  husband  built  this  house.  No  one  except  his 
brother  who  could  possibly  have  deposited  this  money 
here  has  lived  in  the  house,  One  of  those  two  men 


MERCY  PBILBRICJCS  CHOICE.  2$<) 

was  the  owner  of  that  gold.  In  either  case,  she  is  the 
only  heir,  and  it  is  hers.  I  am  sure  you  would  have  felt 
this,  had  we  chanced  to  discover  the  money  on  one  of 
those  winter  nights  you  refer  to.  Now  in  what  has  the 
moral  obligation  been  changed  by  the  fact  that  the  house 
has  come  into  your  hands  ?  Not  by  ordinary  sale,  either ; 
but  simply  by  foreclosure  of  a  mortgage,  under  condi 
tions  which  were  certainly  very  hard  for  Mrs.  Jacobs, 
inasmuch  as  one-half  the  interest  has  always  been  paid. 
This  money  which  you  have  found  would  have  paid 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  original  loan.  It  was  hers, 
only  she  did  not  know  where  it  lay.  O  Stephen,  my 
darling,  I  do  implore  you  not  to  do  this  great  wrong. 
You  will  certainly  come  to  see,  sooner  or  later,  that  it 
was  a  dishonest  act ;  and  then  it  will  be  too  late  to  undo 
it.  If  I  thought  that  by  talking  with  you  I  could  make 
you  see  it  as  I  do,  I  would  come  to  you  at  once.  But  I 
keep  clinging  to  the  hope  that  you  will  see  it  of  your 
self,  that  a  sudden  realization  of  it  will  burst  upon  you 
like  a  great  light.  Don't  speak  so  angrily  to  me  of  call 
ing  you  a  thief.  I  never  used  the  word.  I  never  could. 
I  know  the  act  looks  to  you  right,  or  you  would  not 
commit  it.  But  it  is  terrible  to  me  that  it  should  look 
so  to  you.  I  feel,  darling,  as  if  you  were  color-blind, 
and  I  saw  you  about  to  pick  a  most  deadly  fruit,  whose 
color  ought  to  warn  every  one  from  touching  it ;  but  you, 
not  seeing  the  color,  did  not  know  the  danger ;  and  I 
must  save  you  at  all  hazards,  at  all  costs.  Oh,  what 
shall  I  say,  what  shall  I  say !  How  can  I  make  you  see 
the  truth  ?  God  help  us  if  I  do  not ;  for  such  an  act  as 


260  MERCY  PUILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

this  on  your  part  would  put  an  impassable  gulf  between 

our  souls  for  ever.  Your  loving 

"  MERCY." 

Stephen's  letter  was  in  curter  phrase.  Writing  was  not 
to  him  a  natural  form  of  expression.  Even  of  joyous  or 
loving  words  he  was  chary,  and  much  more  so  of  their 
opposites.  His  life-long  habit  of  repression  of  all  signs 
of  annoyance,  all  complaints,  all  traces  of  suffering, 
told  still  more  on  his  written  words  than  on  his  daily 
speech  and  life.  His  letter  sounded  harder  than  it 
need  for  this  reason ;  seemed  to  have  been  written  in 
antagonism  rather  than  in  grief,  and  so  did  injustice  to 
his  feeling. 

"  MY  DEAR  MERCY,  —  It  is  always  a  mistake  for 
people  to  try  to  impose  their  own  standards  of  right 
and  wrong  on  others.  It  gives  me  very  great  pain  to 
wound  you  in  any  way,  you  know  that ;  and  to  wound 
you  in  such  a  way  as  this  gives  me  the  greatest  possible 
pain.  But  I  cannot  make  your  conscience  mine.  If 
this  money  had  not  seemed  to  me  to  be  justly  my  own, 
I  should  never  have  thought  of  taking  it.  As  it  does 
seem  to  me  to  be  justly  my  own,  your  believing  it  to  be 
another's  ought  not  to  change  my  action.  If  I  had  only 
my  own  future  to  consider,  I  might  give  it  up,  for  the 
sake  of  your  peace  of  mind.  But  it  is  not  so.  I  have 
a  helpless  invalid  dependent  on  me  ;  and  one  of  the 
hardest  things  in  my  life  to  bear  has  always  been  the 
fear  that  I  might  lose  my  health,  and  be  unable  to 
earn  even  the  poor  living  we  now  have.  This  sum, 
small  as  it  is,  will  remove  that  fear,  will  enable  me 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  261 

to  insure  for  my  mother  a  reasonable  amount  of  com 
fort  as  long  as  she  lives  ;  and  I  cannot  give  it  up.  I  do 
not  suppose,  either,  that  it  would  make  any  difference  in 
your  feeling  if  I  gave  it  up  solely  to  please  you,  and  not 
because  I  thought  it  wrong  to  keep  it.  How  any  act 
which  I  honestly  believe  to  be  right,  and  which  you 
know  I  honestly  believe  to  be  right,  can  put  '  an  impass 
able  gulf  between  our  souls  for  ever,'  I  do  not  under 
stand.  But,  if  it  seems  so  to  you,  I  can  only  submit ; 
and  I  will  try  to  forget  that  you  ever  said  to  me,  'I  shall 
trust  you  till  I  die  ! '  O  Mercy,  Mercy,  ask  yourself  if 
you  are  just  1  STEPHEN." 

Mercy  grasped  eagerly  at  the  intimation  in  this  letter 
that  Stephen  might  possibly  give  the  money  up  because 
she  desired  it. 

"  Oh,  if  he  will  only  not  keep  it,  I  don't  care  on  what 
grounds  he  gives  it  up  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  can  bear 
his  thinking  it  was  his,  if  only  the  money  goes  where  it 
belongs.  He  will  see  afterwards  that  I  was  right." 
And  she  sat  down  instantly,  and  wrote  Stephen  a  long 
letter,  imploring  him  to  do  as  he  had  suggested. 

"Darling,"  she  said,  "this  last  letter  of  yours  has 
given  me  great  comfort."  As  Stephen  read  this  sen 
tence,  he  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  surprise.  What  pos 
sible  comfort  there  could  have  been  in  the  words  he 
remembered  to  have  written  he  failed  to  see ;  but  it 
was  soon  made  clear  to  him. 

"  You  say,"  she  continued,  "  that  you  might  possibly 
give  the  money  up  for  sake  of  my  peace  of  mind,  i£  it 


262  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

were  not  for  the  fear  that  your  mother  might  suffer. 

0  Stephen,  then  give  it  up !  give  it  up  !     Trust  to  the 
future's  being  at  least  as  kind  as  the  past.     I  will  not 
say  another  word  about  the  right  or  wrong  of  the  thing. 
Think  that  my  feeling  is  all  morbid  and  overstrained 
about  it,  if  you  will.    I  do  not  care  what  you  think  of  me, 
so  that  I  do  not  have  to  think  of  you  as  using  money 
which  is  not  your  own.     And,  darling,  do  not  be  anx 
ious  about  the  future :  if  any  thing  happens  to  you,  I 
will  take  care  of  your  mother.     It  is  surely  my  right 
next  to  yours.     I  only  wish  you  would  let  me  help  you 
in  it  even,  now.      I  am  earning  more  and  more  money. 

1  have  more  than  I  need.     Oh,  if  you  would  only  take 
some  of  it,  darling !     Why  should  you  not  ?     I  would 
take  it  from  you,  if  you  had  it  and  I  had  not.     I  could 
give  you  in  a  very  few  years  as  much  as  this  you  have 
found  and  never  miss  it.     Do  let  me  atone  to  you  in 
this  way  for  your  giving  up  what  you  think  is  your  right 
in  the  matter  of  this  ill-fated  money.      O  Stephen,  I 
could  be  almost  happy  again,  if  you  would  do  this !    You 
say  it  would  make  no  difference  in  my  feeling  about  it, 
if  you  gave  the  money  up  only  to  please  me,  and  not 
because  you  thought  it  wrong  to  keep  it.     No,  indeed  I 
that  is  not  so.     I  would  be  happier,  if  you  saw  it  as  I 
do,  of  course ;  but,  if  you  cannot,  then  the  next  best 
thing,  the  only  thing  left  for  my  happiness,  is  to  have 
you  yield  to  my  wish.     Why,  Stephen,  I  have  even  felt 
so  strongly  about  it  as  this :  that  sometimes,  in  thinking 
it  over,  I  have  had  a  wild  impulse  to  tell  you  that  if  you 
'ttd  not  give  the  money  to  Mrs.  Jacobs  I  would  inform 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  263 

the  authorities  that  you  had  it,  and  so  test  the  question 
whether  you  had  the  right  to  keep  it  or  not.  Any  thing, 
even  your  humiliation,  has  at  times  seemed  to  me  better 
than  that  you  should  go  on  living  in  the  possession  oi 
stolen  money.  You  can  see  from  this  how  deeply  I  felt 
about  the  thing.  I  suppose  I  really  never  could  have 
done  this.  At  the  last  moment,  I  should  have  found  it 
impossible  to  array  myself  against  you  in  any  such  pub 
lic  way ;  but,  oh,  my  darling,  I  should  always  have  felt 
as  if  I  helped  steal  the  money,  if  I  kept  quiet  about  it. 
You  see  I  use  a  past  tense  already,  I  feel  so  certain  that 
you  will  give  it  up  now.  Dear,  dear  Stephen,  you  will 
never  be  sorry :  as  soon  as  it  is  done,  you  will  be  glad. 
I  wish  that  gold  had  been  all  sunk  in  the  sea,  and  never 
seen  light  again,  the  sight  of  it  has  cost  us  so  dear. 
Darling,  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  load  has  rolled  off  my 
heart.  Oh,  if  you  could  know  what  it  has  been  to  me 
to  have  this  cloud  over  my  thoughts  of  you !  I  have 
always  been  so  proud  of  you,  Stephen,  —  your  patience, 
your  bravery.  In  my  thought,  you  have  stood  always 
for  my  ideal  of  the  beautiful  alliance  of  gentleness  and 
strength.  Darling,  we  owe  something  to  those  who  love 
us :  we  owe  it  to  them  not  to  disappoint  them.  If  I 
were  to  be  tempted  to  do  some  dishonorable  thing,  I 
should  say  to  myself  :  '  No,  for  I  must  be  what  Stephen 
believes  me.  It  is  not  only  that  I  will  not  grieve  him : 
still  more,  I  will  not  disappoint  him.' " 

Mercy  wrote  on  and  on.  The  reaction  from  the 
pent-up  grief,  the  prolonged  strain,  was  great.  In  her 
first  joy  at  any,  even  the  least,  alleviation  of  the  horror 


264  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

she  had  felt  at  the  thought  of  Stephen's  dishonesty,  she 
over-estimated  the  extent  of  the  relief  she  would  feel 
from  his  surrendering  the  money  at  her  request.  She 
wrote  as  buoyantly,  as  confidently,  as  if  his  doing  that 
would  do  away  with  the  whole  wrong  from  the  begin 
ning.  In  her  overflowing  impetuosity,  also,  she  did  not 
consider  what  severe  and  cutting  things  were  implied 
as  well  as  said  in  some  of  her  sentences.  She  closed 
the  letter  without  rereading  it,  hastened  to  send  it  by  the 
first  mail,  and  then  began  to  count  the  days  which  must 
pass  before  Stephen's  answer  could  reach  her. 

Alas  for  Mercy !  this  was  a  sad  preparation  for  the 
result  which  was  to  follow  her  hastily  written  words. 
It  seems  sometimes  as  if  fate  delighted  in  lifting  us  up 
only  to  cast  us  down,  in  taking  us  up  into  a  high  moun 
tain  to  show  us  bright  and  goodly  lands,  only  to  make 
our  speedy  imprisonment  in  the  dark  valley  the  harder 
to  bear. 

Stephen  read  this  last  letter  of  Mercy's  with  an  ever- 
increasing  sense  of  resentment  to  the  very  end.  For 
the  time  being  it  seemed  to  actually  obliterate  every 
trace  of  his  love  for  her.  He  read  the  words  as  wrath- 
fully  as  if  they  had  been  written  by  a  mere  acquaint 
ance. 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  '  Stolen  money ! 
Inform  the  authorities  ! '  Let  her  do  it  if  she  likes, 
and  see  how  she  would  come  out  at  the  end  of  that." 
And  Stephen  wrote  Mercy  very  much  such  a  letter  as 
he  would  have  written  to  a  man  under  the  same  circum 
stances.  Luckily,  he  kept  it  a  day.  and,  rereading  it  in 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  265 

a  cooler  moment  was  shocked  at  its  tone,  destroyed  it, 
and  wrote  another.  But  the  second  one  was  no  less 
hard,  only  more  courteous,  than  the  first.  It  ran  thus :  — 

"  MERCY,  —  I  am  sorry  that  any  thing  in  my  last  letter 
should  have  led  you  to  suppose  that  under  the  existing 
circumstances  you  could  control  my  actions.  All  I  said 
was  that  I  might,  for  the  sake  of  your  peace  of  mind,  give 
up  this  money,  if  it  were  not  for  my  obligations  to  my 
mother.  It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  say,  since  those  obliga 
tions  could  not  be  done  away  with.  I  ought  to  have 
known  that  in  your  overwrought  frame  of  mind  you 
would  snatch  at  the  suggestion,  and  make  it  the  basis 
of  a  fresh  appeal. 

"  Now  let  me  say,  once  for  all,  that  my  mind  is  firmly 
made  up  on  this  subject,  and  that  it  must  be  dropped 
between  us.  The  money  is  mine,  and  I  shall  keep  it. 
If  you  think  it  your  duty  to  '  inform  the  authorities,'  as 
you  say,  you  must  do  so ;  and  I  would  not  say  one  word 
to  hinder  you.  I  would  never,  as  you  do  in  this  case, 
attempt  to  make  my  own  conscience  the  regulator  of 
another's  conduct.  If  you  do  regard  me  as  the  pos 
sessor  of  'stolen  money,' it  is  undoubtedly  your  duty 
to  inform  against  me.  I  can  only  warn  you  that  all  you 
would  gain  by  it  would  be  a  most  disagreeable  exposure 
of  your  own  and  my  private  affairs,  and  much  mortifica 
tion  to  both  of  us.  The  money  is  mine  beyond  all  ques 
tion.  I  shall  not  reply  to  any  more  letters  from  you  on 
this  subject.  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said ;  and  aU 
prolonging  of  the  discussion  is  a  needless  pain,  and  is 
endangering  the  very  foundations  of  our  affection  foi 
12 


266  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

each  other.  I  want  to  say  one  thing  more,  however ; 
and  I  hope  it  will  impress  you  as  it  ought.  Never  for 
get  that  the  strongest  proof  that  my  conscience  was  per 
fectly  clear  in  regard  to  that  money  is  that  I  at  once 
told  you  of  its  discovery.  It  would  have  been  perfectly 
easy  for  me  to  have  accounted  to  you  in  a  dozen  differ 
ent  ways  for  my  having  come  into  possession  of  a  little 
money,  or  even  to  have  concealed  from  you  the  fact  that 
I  had  done  so ;  and,  if  I  had  felt  myself  a  thief,  I  should 
certainly  have  taken  good  care  that  you  did  not  know  it 

"  I  must  also  thank  you  for  your  expressions  of  willing 
ness  to  take  care  of  my  mother,  in  case  of  any  thing's  hap 
pening  to  me.  Until  these  last  letters  of  yours,  I  had  often 
thought,  with  a  sense  of  relief,  that,  if  I  died,  you  would 
never  see  my  mother  suffer ;  but  now  any  such  thought  is 
inseparably  associated  with  bitter  memories.  And  my 
mother  will  not,  in  any  event,  need  your  help  ;  for  the 
money  I  shall  have  from  the  sale  of  the  house,  together 
with  '  his  which  I  have  found,  will  give  her  all  she  will 
requiie. 

"  \  — u  must  forgive  me  if  this  letter  sounds  hard, 
Merc^ .  I  have  not  your  faculty  of  mingling  endearing 
epithets  with  sharp  accusations  and  reproaches.  I  can 
not  be  lover  and  culprit  at  once,  as  you  are  able  to 
be  lover  and  accuser,  or  judge.  I  love  you,  I  think,  as 
deeply  and  tenderly  as  ever  ;  but  you  yourself  have  made 
all  expression  of  it  impossible.  STEPHEN." 

This  letter  roused  in  Mercy  most  conflicting  emo 
tions.  Wounded  feeling  at  its  coldness,  a  certain  admi 
ration  for  its  tone  of  immovable  resolution,  anger  at 


MERCY  PHILBRrCK'S   CHOICE.  267 

what  seemed  to  her  Stephen's  unjustifiable  resentment 
of  her  effort  to  influence  his  action,  —  all  these  blended 
in  one  great  pain  which  was  well-nigh  unbearable.  For 
the  time  being,  her  distress  in  regard  to  the  money 
seemed  cast  into  shadow  and  removed  by  all  this  suffer 
ing  in  her  personal  relation  with  Stephen  ;  but  the  per 
sonal  suffering  had  not  so  deep  a  foundation  as  the 
other.  Gradually,  all  sense  of  her  own  individual  hurts 
in  Stephen's  words,  in  his  acts,  in  the  weakening  of  the 
bond  which  held  them  together,  died  out,  and  left  be 
hind  it  only  a  sense  of  bereavement  and  loss ;  while  the 
first  horror  of  Stephen's  wrong-doing,  of  the  hopeless 
lack  in  his  moral  nature,  came  back  with  twofold  inten 
sity.  This  had  its  basis  in  convictions,  —  in  convictions 
which  were  as  strong  as  the  foundations  of  the  earth : 
the  other  had  its  basis  in  emotions,  in  sensibilities  which 
might  pass  away  or  be  dulled. 

Spite  of  Stephen's  having  forbidden  all  reference  to 
the  subject,  Mercy  wrote  letter  after  letter  upon  it, 
pleading  sometimes  humbly,  sometimes  vehemently.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  fighting  for  Stephen's  very 
life,  and  she  could  not  give  way.  To  all  these  out 
pourings  Stephen  made  no  reply.  He  answered  the 
letters  punctually,  but  made  no  reference  to  the  question 
of  the  money,  save  by  a  few  short  words  at  the  end  of 
his  letter,  or  in  a  postscript :  such  as,  "  It  grieves  me 
to  see  that  you  still  dwell  on  that  matter  of  which  I  said 
we  must  speak  no  more ; "  or,  "  Pray,  dear  Mercy,  do 
not  prolong  that  painful  discussion.  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  you  about  it." 


268  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

For  the  rest,  his  letters  were  faithful  transcripts  of 
the  little  events  of  his  uneventful  life,  warm  comments 
on  any  of  Mercy's  wiitings  which  he  read,  and  gentle 
assurances  of  his  continued  affection.  The  old  longings, 
broodings,  and  passionate  yearnings,  which  he  used  to 
pour  out,  ceased.  Stephen  wa3  wounded  to  the  very 
quick  j  and  the  wound  did  not  heal.  Yet  he  felt  no 
withdrawal  from  Mercy :  probably  nothing  she  could  do 
would  ever  drive  him  from  her.  He  would  die,  if  worst 
came  to  worst,  lying  by  her  side  and  looking  up  in  her 
eyes,  like  a  dog  at  the  feet  of  its  master  who  had  shot 
him. 

Mercy  was  much  moved  by  this  tone  of  patience 
in  his  letters  :  it  touched  her,  as  the  look  of  patient 
endurance  on  his  face  used  to  touch  her.  It  also  irri 
tated  her,  it  was  so  foreign  to  her  own  nature. 

"  How  can  he  help  answering  these  things  I  say  ? " 
she  would  exclaim.  "  He  has  no  right  to  refuse  to  talk 
with  me  about  such  a  vital  matter."  If  any  one  had  said 
to  Mercy,  "  He  has  as  much  right  to  refuse  to  discuss  the 
question  as  you  have  to  force  it  upon  him,"  she  could 
not  have  seen  the  point  fairly. 

But  all  Stephen's  patience,  gentleness,  and  firmness 
did  not  abate  one  jot  or  tittle  of  Mercy's  conviction  that 
he  was  doing  a  dishonest  thing.  On  the  contrary,  his 
quiet  appeared  to  her  more  and  more  like  a  callous 
satisfaction  ;  and  his  occasional  cheerfulness,  like  an 
exultation  over  his  ill-gotten  gains.  Slowly  there  crept 
into  her  feeling  towards  him  a  certain  something  which 
was  akin  to  scorn,  —  the  most  fatal  of  deaths  to  love. 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  269 

The  hateful  word  "  thief "  seemed  to  be  perpetually 
ringing  in  her  ears.  When  she  read  accounts  of  rob 
beries,  of  defalcations,  of  breaches  of  trust,  she  found 
herself  always  drawing  parallels  between  the  conduct 
of  these  criminals  and  Stephen's.  The  secrecy,  the 
unassailable  safety  of  his  crime,  seemed  to  her  to  make 
it  inexpressibly  more  odious. 

"  I  do  believe,"  she  thought  to  herself  again  and  again, 
"  that  if  he  had  been  driven  by  his  poverty  to  knocking 
men  down  on  the  highway,  and  robbing  them  of  their 
pocket-books,  I  should  not  have  so  loathed  it ! " 

As  the  weeks  went  on,  Mercy's  unhappiness  increased 
rather  than  diminished.  There  seemed  an  irreconcil 
able  conflict  between  her  love  and  every  other  emotion 
in  her  soul.  She  seemed  to  herself  to  be,  as  it  were, 
playing  the  hypocrite  to  her  own  heart  in  thinking  thus 
of  a  man  and  loving  him  still ;  for  that  she  still  loved 
Stephen,  she  did  not  once  doubt.  At  this  time,  she 
printed  a  little  poem,  which  set  many  of  her  friends  to 
wondering  from  what  experience  of  hers  it  could  pos 
sibly  have  been  drawn.  Mercy's  poems  were  so  largely 
subjective  in  tone  that  it  was  hard  for  her  readers  to 
believe  that  they  were  not  all  drawn  from  her  own  indi 
vidual  experience. 

A  WOMAN'S   BATTLE. 

Dear  foe,  I  know  thou  'It  win  the  fight ; 
I  know  thou  hast  the  stronger  bark, 
And  thou  art  sailing  in  the  light, 
While  I  am  creeping  in  the  dark. 


270  MERCY  PniLB RICK'S   CHOICE. 

Thou  dost  not  dream  that  I  am  crying, 
As  I  come  up  with  colors  flying. 

I  clear  away  my  wounded,  slain, 

With  strength  like  frenzy  strong  and  swift ; 

I  do  not  feel  the  tug  and  strain, 

Though  dead  are  heavy,  hard  to  lift. 
If  I  looked  on  their  faces  dying, 
I  could  not  keep  my  colors  flying. 

Dear  foe,  it  will  be  short,  —  our  fight,  — 
•  Though  lazily  thou  train'st  thy  guns  : 

Fate  steers  us,  —  me  to  deeper  night, 

And  thee  to  brighter  seas  and  suns  ; 
But  thou  'It  not  dream  that  I  am  dying, 
As  I  sail  by  with  colors  flying ! 

There  was  great  injustice  to  Stephen  in  this  poem. 
When  he  read  it,  he  groaned,  and  exclaimed  aloud, 
"  O  Mercy !  O  Mercy ! "  Then,  as  he  read  it  over 
again,  he  said,  "  Surely  she  could  not  have  meant  her 
self  in  this  :  it  is  only  dramatic.  She  could  never  call 
me  her  foe."  Mercy  had  often  said  to  him  of  some  of 
her  most  intense  poems,  "  Oh,  it  was  purely  dramatic ! 
I  just  fancied  how  anybody  would  feel  under  such  cir 
cumstances  ; "  and  he  clung  to  the  hope  that  it  was  true 
in  this  case.  But  it  was  not.  Already  Mercy  had  a 
sense  of  antagonism,  of  warfare,  with  Stephen,  or 
rather  with  her  love  for  him.  Already  her  pride  was 
beginning  to  array  itself  in  reticence,  in  withdrawal,  in 
suppression.  More  than  once  she  had  said  to  herself, 
"  I  can  live  without  him  !  I  could  bear  that  pain  better 
than  this."  More  than  once  she  had  asked  herself  with 
a  kind  of  terror,  "  Do  I  really  wish  ever  to  see  Stephen 


MERCY  PBILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  2/1 

again  ? "  and  had  been  forced  to  own  in  her  secret 
thought  that  she  shrank  from  meeting  him.  She  began 
even  to  consider  the  possibility  of  deferring  the  visit  to 
Lizzy  Hunter,  which  she  had  promised  to  make  in  the 
spring.  As  the  time  drew  nearer,  her  unwillingness  to 
go  increased,  and  she  would  no  doubt  have  discovered 
some  way  of  escape ;  but  one  day  early  in  March  a 
telegram  came  to  her,  which  left  her  no  longer  any 
room  for  choice. 
It  ran :  — 

"  Uncle  Dorrance  is  not  expected  to  live.     He  wishes 
to  see  you.     He  is  at  my  house.     Come  immediately. 

"  LIZZY  HUNTER." 


2/2  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

W]  THIN  six  hours  after  the  receipt  of  this  tele- 
gram,  Mercy  was  on  her  way  to  Penfield.  Her 
journey  would  take  a  night  and  part  of  a  day.  As  the 
morning  dawned,  and  she  drew  near  the  old  familiar 
scenes,  her  heart  was  wrung  with  conflicting  memories 
and  hopes  and  fears.  The  whole  landscape  was  dreary : 
the  fields  were  dark  and  sodden,  with  narrow  banks  of 
discolored  snow  lying  under  the  fences,  and  thin  rims 
of  ice  along  the  edges  of  the  streams  and  pools.  The 
sky  was  gray  ;  the  bare  trees  were  gray  :  all  life  looked 
gray  and  hopeless  to  Mercy.  She  had  had  an  over 
mastering  presentiment  from  the  moment  when  she  read 
the  telegram  that  she  should  reach  Penfield  too  late  to 
see  Parson  Dorrance  alive.  A  strange  certainty  that  he 
had  died  in  the  night  settled  upon  her  mind  as  soon 
as  she  waked  from  her  troubled  sleep ;  and  when  she 
reached  Lizzy's  door,  and  saw  standing  before  it  the  un 
dertaker's  wagon,  which  she  so  well  remembered,  there 
was  no  shock  of  surprise  to  her  in  the  sight.  At  the 
first  sound  of  Mercy's  voice,  Lizzy  came  swiftly  forward, 
and  fell  upon  her  neck  in  a  passion  of  crying. 

"  O  Mercy,  Mercy,  he  "  — 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  it,"  interrupted  Mercy,  in  a  calm 
tone.  "  I  know  he  is  dead." 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  273 

"Why,  who  told  you,  Mercy  ? "  exclaimed  Lizzy.  "  He 
only  died  a  few  hours  ago,  —  about  daybreak." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  he  died  in  the  night !  "  said  Mercy,  in 
a  strange  tone,  as  if  trying  to  recollect  something  ac 
curately  about  which  her  memory  was  not  clear.  Her 
look  and  her  tone  filled  Lizzy  with  terror,  and  banished 
her  grief  for  the  time  being. 

"  Mercy,  Mercy,  don't  look  so ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Speak  to  me  !  Oh,  do  cry,  can't  you  ?  "  And  Lizzy's 
tears  flowed  afresh. 

"  No,  Lizzy,  I  don't  think  I  can  cry,"  said  Mercy,  in 
the  same  strange,  low  voice.  "I  wish  I  could  have 
spoken  to  him  once,  though.  Did  he  leave  any  word 
for  me  ?  Perhaps  there  is  something  he  wanted  me  to 
do." 

Mercy's  face  was  white,  and  her  lips  trembled ;  but 
her  look  was  hardly  the  look  of  one  in  sorrow :  it  was  a 
rapt  look,  as  of  one  walking  on  dizzy  heights,  breathless 
with  some  solemn  purpose.  Lizzy  was  convulsed  with 
grief,  sobbing  like  a  child,  and  pouring  out  one  inco 
herent  sentence  after  another.  Mercy  soothed  her  and 
comforted  her  as  a  mother  might  have  done,  and  finally 
compelled  her  to  be  more  calm.  Mercy's  magnetic 
power  over  those  whom  she  loved  was  almost  unlimited. 
She  forestalled  their  very  wills,  and  made  them  desire 
what  she  desired. 

"  O   Mercy,  don't  make  me  glad  he  is  dead !     You 

frighten  me,  darling.     I  don't  want  to  stop  crying  ;  but 

you  have  sealed  up  all  my  tears,"  cried  Lizzy,  later  in 

the  day,  when  Mercy  had  been  talking  like  a.seei,  who 

12*  B 


2/4  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

could  look  into  the  streets  of  heaven,  and  catch  the 
sound  of  the  songs  of  angels. 

Mercy  smiled  sadly.  "I  don't  want  to  prevent  your 
crying,  dear,"  she  said,  "  if  it  does  you  any  good.  But  1 
am  very  sure  that  Mr.  Dorrance  sees  us  at  this  moment, 
and  longs  to  tell  us  how  glad  he  is,  and  that  we  must  be 
glad  for  him."  And  Mercy's  eyes  shone  as  they  looked 
steadfastly  across  the  room,  as  if  the  empty  space  were, 
to  her  vision,  peopled  with  spirits.  This  mood  of  exalted 
communion  did  not  leave  her.  Her  face  seemed  trans 
figured  by  it.  When  she  stood  by  the  body  of  her  loved 
teacher  and  friend,  she  clasped  her  hands,  and,  bending 
over  the  face,  exclaimed,  — 

"  Oh,  how  good  God  was  !  "  Then,  turning  suddenly 
to  Lizzy,  she  exclaimed,  — 

"Lizzy,  did  you  know  that  he  loved  me,  and  asked 
me  to  be  his  wife  ?  This  is  why  I  am  thanking  God  for 
taking  him  to  heaven." 

Lizzy's  face  paled.  Astonishment,  incredulity,  anger, 
grief,  all  blended  in  the  sudden  look  she  turned  upon 
Mercy.  "  I  thought  so !  I  thought  so !  But  I  never 
believed  you  knew  it.  And  you  did  not  love  him  1 
Mercy,  I  will  never  forgive  you !  " 

"  He  forgave  me,"  said  Mercy,  gently  ;  "  and  so  you 
might.  But  I  shall  never  forgive  myself!" 

"  Mercy  Philbrick  !  "  exclaimed  Lizzy,  "  how  could 
you  help  loving  that  man  ? "  And,  in  her  excitement, 
Lizzy  stretched  out  her  right  hand  towards  the  rigid, 
motionless  figure  under  the  white  pall.  "  He  was  the 
most  glorious  man  God  ever  made." 


MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  2?$ 

The  two  women  stood  side  by  side,  looking  into  the 
face  of  the  dead.  It  was  a  strange  place  for  these  words 
to  be  spoken.  It  was  as  solemn  as  eternity.  . 

"  I  did  not  help  loving  him,"  said  Mercy,  in  a  lower 
tone,  her  white  face  growing  whiter  as  she  spoke. 
*'  But "  —  she  paused.  No  words  came  to  her  lips,  for 
the  bitter  consciousness  which  filled  her  heart. 

Lizzy's  voice  sank  to  a  husky  whisper. 

"But  what?"  she  said.  "O  Mercy,  Mercy!  is  it 
Stephen  White  you  love  ?  "  And  Lizzy's  face,  even  in 
that  solemn  hour,  took  a  look  of  scorn.  "  Are  you 
going  to  marry  Stephen  White?"  she  continued. 

"  Never,  Lizzy,  —  never !  "  said  Mercy,  in  a  tone  as 
concentrated  as  if  a  lifetime  ended  there ;  and,  stooping 
low,  she  kissed  the  rigid  hands  which  lay  folded  on  the 
heart  of  the  man  she  ought  to  have  loved,  but  had  not. 
Then,  turning  away,  she  took  Lizzy's  hands  in  hers,  and 
kissing  her  forehead  said  earnestly,  — 

"  We  will  never  speak  again  of  this,  Lizzy,  remember." 
Lizzy  was  overawed  by  her  tone,  and  made  no  reply. 

Parson  Dorrance's  funeral  was  a  scene  which  will 
never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  saw  it.  It  was  on  one 
of  the  fiercest  days  which  the  fierce  New  England 
March  can  show.  A  storm  of  rain  and  sleet,  with  occa 
sional  softened  intervals  of  snow,  raged  all  day.  The 
roads  were  gullies  of  swift-running  water  and  icy 
sloughs  ;  the  cold  was  severe  ;  and  the  cutting  wind  at 
times  drove  the  sleet  and  rain  in  slanting  scourges, 
before  which  scarce  man  or  beast  could  stand.  The 
funeral  was  held  in  the  village  church,  which  was  largei 


2?6  MERCY  PHfLBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

than  the  college  chapel.  Long  before  the  hour  at 
which  the  services  were  to  begin,  every  pew  was  filled, 
and  the  aisles  were  crowded  with  those  who  could  not 
find  seats.  From  every  parish  within  twenty  miles  the 
mourners  had  come.  There  was  not  one  there  who  had 
not  heard  words  of  help  or  comfort  from  Parson  Dor- 
ranee's  lips.  The  students  of  the  college  filled  the  body 
of  the  church  ;  the  Faculty  and  distinguished  strangers 
sat  in  the  front  pews.  The  pews  under  one  of  the 
galleries  had  been  reserved  for  the  negroes  from  "  The 
Cedars."  Early  in  the  morning  the  poor  creatures  had 
begun  to  flock  in.  Not  a  seat  was  empty :  old  women, 
women  with  babies,  old  men,  boys  and  girls,  wet,  drip 
ping,  ragged,  friendless,  more  than  one  hundred  of 
them,  —  there  they  were.  They  had  walked  all  that 
distance  in  that  terrible  storm.  Each  one  had  brought 
in  his  hand  a  green  bough  or  a  bunch  of  rock-ferns, 
something  of  green  beauty  from  the  woods  their  teacher 
had  taught  them  to  love.  They  sat  huddled  together,  with 
an  expression  of  piteous  grief  on  every  face,  which  was 
enough  to  touch  the  stoniest  heart.  Now  and  then  sobs 
would  burst  from  the  women,  and  some  old  figure  would 
be  seen  rocking  to  and  fro  in  uncontrollable  sorrow. 

The  coffin  stood  on  a  table  in  front  of  the  pulpit.  It 
seemed  to  be  resting  on  an  altar  of  cedar  and  ferns. 
Mercy  had  brought  from  her  old  haunts  in  the  woods 
masses  of  the  glossy  evergreen  fern,  and  interwoven 
them  with  the  boughs  of  cedar.  At  the  end  of  the  ser 
vices,  it  was  announced  that  all  who  wished  could  pass 
by  the  coffin  and  take  one  last  look  at  their  friend. 


MERCY  PHILBR1CICS  CHOICE.  277 

Slowly  and  silently  the  congregation  passed  up  the 
right  aisle,  looked  on  the  face,  and  passed  out  at  the 
left  door.  It  was  a  pathetic  sight  to  see  the  poor,  out 
cast  band  wait  patiently,  humbly,  till  every  one  else  had 
gone :  then,  like  a  flock  of  stricken  sheep,  they  rushed 
confusedly  towards  the  pulpit,  and  gathered  round  the 
coffin.  Now  burst  out  the  grief  which  had  been  pent 
up :  with  cries  and  ejaculations,  they  went  tottering  and 
stumbling  down  the  aisles.  One  old  man,  with  hair  as 
white  as  snow,  —  one  of  the  original  fugitive  slaves  who 
had  founded  the  settlement,  —  bent  over  the  coffin  at 
its  head,  and  clung  with  both  hands  to  its  edge,  swaying 
back  and  forth  above  it,  crying  aloud,  till  the  sexton  was 
obliged  to  loosen  his  grasp  and  lead  him  away  by  force. 

The  college  faculty  still  sat  in  the  front  pews.  There 
were  some  of  their  number,  younger  men,  scholars  and 
men  of  the  world,  who  had  not  been  free  from  a  dispo 
sition  to  make  good-natured  fun  of  Parson  Dorrance's 
philanthropies.  They  shrugged  their  shoulders  some 
times  at  the  mention  of  his  parish  at  "  The  Cedars ; " 
they  regarded  him  as  old-fashioned  and  unpractical. 
They  sat  conscience-stricken  and  abashed  now ;  the 
tears  of  these  bereaved  black  people  smote  their  phi 
losophy  and  their  worldliness,  and  showed  them  how 
shallow  they  were.  Tears  answered  to  tears,  and  the 
college  professors  and  the  negro  slaves  wept  together. 

"They  have  nobody  left  to  love  them  now,"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  youngest  and  hitherto  most  cynical  of  Par 
son  Dorrance's  colleagues,  as  he  stood  watching  th« 
grief-stricken  creatures. 


2/8  MERCY  PHILBRICfCS  CHOICE. 

While  the  procession  formed  to  bear  the  body  to  the 
grave,  the  blacks  stood  in  a  group  on  the  church-steps, 
watching  it.  After  the  last  carriage  had  fallen  into 
line,  they  hurried  down  and  followed  on  in  the  storm. 
In  vain  some  kindly  persons  tried  to  dissuade  them.  It 
was  two  miles  to  the  cemetery,  two  miles  farther  away 
from  their  homes  ;  but  they  repelled  all  suggestions  of 
the  exposure  with  indignant  looks,  and  pressed  on. 
When  the  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  they  pushed 
timidly  forward,  and  began  to  throw  in  their  green 
boughs  and  bunches  of  ferns.  Every  one  else  stepped 
back  respectfully  as  soon  as  their  intention  was  discov 
ered,  and  in  a  moment  they  had  formed  in  solid  ranks 
close  about  the  grave,  each  one  casting  in  his  green 
palm  of  crown  and  remembrance,  —  a  body-guard  such 
as  no  emperor  ever  had  to  stand  around  him  in  his 
grave. 

On  the  day  after  Mercy's  arrival  in  town,  Stephen  had 
called  to  see  her.  She  had  sent  down  to  him  a  note  with 
these  words :  — 

"I  cannot  see  you,  dear  Stephen,  until  after  all  is 
over.  The  funeral  will  be  to-morrow.  Come  the  next 
morning,  as  early  as  you  like." 

The  hours  had  seemed  bitterly  long  to  Stephen.  He 
had  watched  Mercy  at  the  funeral ;  and,  when  he  saw  her 
face  bowed  in  her  hands,  and  felt  rather  than  saw  that 
she  was  sobbing,  he  was  stung  by  a  new  sense  of  loss 
and  wrong  that  he  had  no  right  to  be  by  her  side  and 
comfort  her.  He  forgot  for  the  time,  in  the  sight  of 
her  grief,  all  the  unhappiness  of  their  relation  for  the 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  2 79 

past  few  months.  He  had  unconsciously  felt  all  along 
that,  if  he  could  but  once  look  in  her  eyes,  all  would  be 
well.  How  could  he  help  feeling  so,  when  he  recalled 
the  expression  of  childlike  trust  and  devotion  which  her 
sweet  face  always  wore  when  she  lifted  it  to  his  ?  And 
now,  as  his  eyes  dwelt  lingeringly  and  fondly  on  every 
line  of  her  bowed  form,  he  had  but  one  thought,  but  one 
consciousness,  —  his  desire  to  throw  his  arms  about  her, 
and  exclaim,  "  O  Mercy,  are  you  not  my  own,  my  very 
own  ? " 

With  his  heart  full  of  this  new  fondness  and  warmth, 
Stephen  went  at  an  early  hour  to  seek  Mercy.  As  he 
entered  the  house,  he  was  sensibly  affected  by  the  ex 
pression  still  lingering  of  the  yesterday's  grief.  The 
decorations  of  evergreens  and  flowers  were  still  un 
touched.  Mercy  and  Lizzy  had  made  the  whole  house 
gay  as  for  a  festival ;  but  the  very  blossoms  seemed  to 
day  to  say  that  it  had  been  a  festival  of  sorrow.  A 
large  sheaf  of  callas  had  stood  on  a  small  table  at  the 
head  of  the  coffin.  The  table  had  not  yet  been  moved 
from  the  place  where  it  stood  near  the  centre  of  the 
room  ;  but  it  stood  there  now  alone,  with  a  strange  ex 
pression  of  being  left  by  accident.  Stephen  bent  over 
it,  looking  into  the  deep  creamy  cups,  and  thinking 
dreamily  that  Mercy's  nature  was  as  fair,  as  white,  as 
royal  as  these  most  royal  of  graceful  flowers,  when  the 
door  opened  and  Mercy  came  towards  him.  He  sprang 
to  meet  her  with  outstretched  arms.  Something  in  her 
look  made  the  outstretched  arms  fall  nerveless ;  made 
his  springing  step  pause  suddenly ;  made  the  very  words 


280  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

die  away  on  his  lips.     "  O  Mercy ! >y  was  all  he  could 
say,  and  he  breathed  it  rather  than  said  it. 

Mercy  smiled  a  very  piteous  smile,  and  said,  "  Yes, 
Stephen,  I  am  here." 

"  O  Mercy,  it  is  not  you  !  You  are  not  here.  What 
has  done  this  to  you  ?  Did  you  so  love  that  man  ? " 
exclaimed  Stephen,  a  sudden  pang  seizing  him  of  fiercest 
jealousy  of  the  dead,  whom  he  had  never  feared  while 
he  was  living. 

Mercy's  face  contracted,  as  if  a  sharp  pain  had 
wrenched  every  nerve. 

"  No,  I  did  not  love  him ;  that  is,  not  as  you  mean. 
You  know  how  very  dearly  I  did  love  him,  though." 

"  Dear  darling,  you  are  all  worn  out.  This  shock  has 
been  too  much  for  you.  You  are  not  well,"  said  Stephen, 
tenderly,  coming  nearer  to  her  and  taking  her  hand. 
"  You  must  have  rest  and  sleep  at  once." 

The  hand  was  not  Mercy's  hand  any  more  than  the 
voice  had  been  Mercy's  voice.  Stephen  dropped  it,  and, 
looking  fixedly  at  Mercy's  eyes,  whispered,  "  Mercy, 
you  do  not  love  me  as  you  used  to." 

Mercy's  eyes  drooped ;  she  locked  her  hands  tightly 
together,  and  said,  "  I  can't,  Stephen."  No  possible 
form  of  words  could  have  been  so  absolute.  "  I  can't ! " 
"I  do  not,"  would  have  been  merciful,  would  ha\e 
held  a  hope,  by  the  side  of  this  helpless,  despairing,  "  I 
can't." 

Stephen  sank  into  a  chair,  and  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hands.  Mercy  stood  still,  near  the  white  callas ;  her 
hands  clasped,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  Stephen.  At  last 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE.  28 1 

she  spoke,  in  a  voice  of  unutterable  yearning  and  ten 
derness,  "  I  do  love  you,  Stephen." 

At  these  words,  he  pressed  his  hands  tighter  upon  his 
eyes  for  one  second,  then  shook  them  hastily  free,  and 
looking  up  at  Mercy  said  gently,  — 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  you  do  ;  and  I  know  you  would 
have  loved  me  always,  if  you  could.  Do  not  be  unhappy. 
I  told  you  a  long  time  ago  that  to  have  had  you  once 
love  me  was  enough  for  a  lifetime."  And  Stephen 
smiled,  —  a  smile  more  pathetic  than  Mercy's  had  been. 
He  went  on,  still  in  the  same  gentle  voice,  —  a  voice  out 
of  which  the  very  life  seemed  to  have  died,  —  "I  hoped, 
when  we  met,  all  would  be  right.  It  used  to  be  so 
much  to  you,  Mercy,  to  look  into  my  eyes,  I  thought 
you  would  trust  me  when  you  saw  me." 

No  reproach,  no  antagonism,  no  entreaty.  With  the 
long-trained  patience  of  a  lifetime,  Stephen  accepted 
this  great  grief,  and  made  no  effort  to  gainsay  it.  Mercy 
tried  again  and  again  to  speak,  but  no  words  came.  At 
last,  with  a  flood  of  tears,  she  exclaimed,  — 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  Stephen,  —  I  cannot  help  it." 

"  No,  darling,  you  cannot  help  it ;  and  it  is  not  your 
fault,"  replied  Stephen.  Touched  to  the  heart  by  his 
sweetness  and  forbearance,  Mercy  went  nearer  him,  and 
took  his  hand,  and  in  her  old  way  was  about  to  lay 
it  to  her  cheek. 

Stephen  drew  it  hastily  away,  and  a  shudder  ran  over 
his  body.  "  No,  Mercy,  do  not  try  to  do  that.  That 
is  not  right,  when  you  do  not  trust  me.  You  cannot 
help  loving  the  touch  of  my  hand,  Mercy,"  —  and  a  cer- 


282  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

tain  sad  pride  lighted  Stephen's  face  at  the  thought 
of  the  clinging  affection  which  even  now  stirred  this 
woman's  veins  for  him,  —  "  any  more  than  you  can  help 
having  ceased  to  trust  me.  If  the  trust  ever  comes 
back,  then "  —  Stephen  turned  his  head  away,  and 
did  not  finish  the  sentence.  A  great  silence  fell  upon 
them  both.  How  inexplicable  it  seemed  to  them  that 
there  was  nothing  to  say !  At  last  Stephen  rose,  and 
said  gravely, — 

"  Good-by,  Mercy.  Unless  there  is  something  I  can 
do  to  help  you,  I  would  rather  not  see  you  again." 

"  No,"  whispered  Mercy.     "  That  is  best." 

"  And  if  the  time  ever  comes,  darling,  when  you  need 
me,  ...  or  trust  me  .  .  .  again,  will  you  write  to  me 
and  say  so  ? " 

"  Yes,"  sobbed  Mercy,  and  Stephen  left  her.  On  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  he  turned  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
her  with  one  long  look  of  sorrow,  compassion,  and  in 
finite  love.  Her  heart  thrilled  under  it.  She  made  an 
eager  step  forward.  If  he  had  returned,  she  would  have 
thrown  herself  into  his  arms,  and  cried  out,  "  O  Ste 
phen,  I  do  love  you,  I  do  trust  you."  But  Stephen 
made  an  inexorable  gesture  of  his  hand,  which  said 
more  than  any  words,  "  No !  no !  do  not  deceive  your 
self,"  and  was  gone. 

And  thus  they  parted  for  ever,  this  man  and  this 
woman  who  had  been  for  two  years  all  in  all  to  each 
other,  who  had  written  on  each  other's  hearts  and  lives 
characters  which  eternity  itself  could  never  efface. 

Hope  lived  long  in  Stephen's  heart.     He  built  too 


MhRCY  PHILBRICICS  CHOICE.  283 

much  on  the  memories  of  his  magnetic  power  over 
Mercy,  and  he  judged  her  nature  too  much  by  his  own. 
He  would  have  loved  and  followed  her  to  the  end,  in 
spite  of  her  having  become  a  very  outcast  of  crime,  if 
she  had  continued  to  love  him ;  and  it  was  simply 
impossible  for  him  to  conceive  of  her  love's  being  either 
less  or  different.  But,  when  in  a  volume  of  poems 
which  Mercy  published  one  year  after  their  parting,  he 
read  the  following  sonnet,  he  knew  that  all  was  indeed 
over : — 

DIED. 

Not  by  the  death  that  kills  the  body.     Nay, 
By  that  which  even  Christ  bade  us  to  fear 
Hath  died  my  dead. 

Ah,  me  !  if  on  a  bier 

I  could  but  see  him  lifeless  stretched  to-day, 
I  'd  bathe  his  face  with  tears  of  joy,  and  lay 
My  cheek  to  his  in  anguish  which  were  near 
To  ecstasy,  if  I  could  hold  him  dear 
In  death  as  life.     Mere  separations  weigh 
As  dust  in  balances  of  love.     The  death 
That  kills  comes  only  by  dishonor.     Vain 
To  chide  me !  vain  !    And  weaker  to  implore, 
O  thou  once  loved  so  well,  loved  now  no  more ) 
There  is  no  resurrection  for  such  slain, 
No  miracle  of  God  could  give  thee  breath ! 


Mercy  Philbrick  lived  thirty  years  after  the  events 
described  in  these  pages.  It  was  a  life  rich  to  over 
flowing,  yet  uneventful,  as  the  world  reckons :  a  life 
lonely,  yet  full  of  companionship ;  sad,  yet  full  of  cheer; 
hard,  and  yet  perpetually  uplifted  by  an  inward  joy 


284  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 

which  made  her  very  presence  like  sunshine,  and  made 
men  often  say  of  her,  "  Oh,  she  has  never  known  sor 
row."  This  was  largely  the  result  of  her  unquenchable 
gift  of  song,  of  the  true  poet's  temperament,  to  which 
life  is  for  ever  new,  beautiful,  and  glad.  It  was  also 
the  result  of  her  ever-increasing  spirituality  of  nature. 
This  took  no  shape  of  creed,  worship,  or  what  the 
world's  common  consent  calls  religion.  Most  of  the 
words  spoken  by  the  teachers  of  churches  repelled 
Mercy  by  their  monotonous  iteration  of  the  letter  which 
killeth.  But  her  realization  of  the  solemn  significance 
of  the  great  fact  of  being  alive  deepened  every  hour : 
her  tenderness,  her  sense  of  brotherhood  to  every  humai. 
being,  and  her  sense  of  the  actual  presence  and  near 
love  of  God.  Her  old  intolerance  was  softened,  or 
rather  it  had  changed  from  antagonisms  on  the  surface 
to  living  principles  at  the  core.  Truth,  truth,  truth, 
was  still  the  war-cry  of  her  soul ;  and  there  was  an 
intensity  in  every  word  of  her  written  or  spoken  plead 
ings  on  this  subject  which  might  well  have  revealed  to 
a  careful  analyzer  of  them  that  they  had  sprung  out  of 
the  depths  of  the  profoundest  experiences.  Her  influ 
ence  as  a  writer  was  very  great.  As  she  grew  older, 
she  wrote  less  and  less  for  the  delight  of  the  ear,  more 
and  more  for  the  stirring  of  the  heart.  To  do  a  little 
towards  making  people  glad,  towards  making  them  kind 
to  one  another,  towards  opening  their  eyes  to  the  omni 
present  beauty,  —  these  were  her  ambitions.  "  Oh,  the 
tender,  unutterable  beauty  of  all  created  things !  "  were 
the  opening  lines  of  one  of  her  sweetest  songs  ;  and 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  285 

it  might  have  been  said  to  be  one  of  the  watchwords  of 
her  life. 

It  took  many  years  for  her  to  reach  this  plane,  to 
attain  to  the  fulness  of  this  close  spiritual  communion 
with  things  seen  and  unseen.  The  double  bereavement 
and  strain  of  her  two  years  of  life  in  Penfield  left  her 
for  a  long  time  bruised  and  sore.  Her  relation  with 
Stephen,  as  she  looked  back  upon  it,  hurt  her  in  every 
fibre  of  her  nature.  Sometimes  she  was  filled  with  remorse 
for  the  grief  she  had  caused  him,  and  sometimes  with 
poignant  distress,  of  doubt  whether  she  had  not  after 
all  been  unjust  to  him.  Underlying  all  this  remorse, 
all  this  doubt, was  a  steadily  growing  consciousness  that 
her  love  for  him  was  in  the  very  outset  a  mistake,  an 
abnormal  emotion,  born  of  temporary  and  insufficient 
occasion,  and  therefore  sure  to  have  sooner  or  later 
proved  too  weak  for  the  tests  of  life.  On  the  other 
hand,  her  thoughts  of  Parson  Dorrance  grew  constantly 
warmer,  tenderer,  more  assured.  His  character,  his 
love  for  her,  his  beautiful  life,  rose  steadily  higher  and 
higher,  and  brighter  and  brighter  on  her  horizon,  as  the 
lofty  snow-clad  peaks  of  a  mountain  land  reveal  them 
selves  in  all  their  grandeur  to  our  vision  only  when  we 
have  journeyed  away  from  their  base.  Slowly  the  whole 
allegiance  of  her  heart  transferred  itself  to  the  dead  man's 
memory ;  slowly  her  grief  for  his  loss  deepened,  and 
yet  with  the  deepened  grief  came  a  certain  new  and 
holy  joy.  It  surely  could  not  be  impossible  for  him  to 
know  in  heaven  that  she  was  his  on  earth  ?  As  con 
fidently  as  if  she  had  been  wedded  to  him  here,  she 


286  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

looked  forward  to  the  reunion  with  him  there,  and 
found  in  her  secret  consciousness  of  this  eternal  bond 
a  hidden  rapture,  such  as  has  been  the  stay  of  many 
a  widowed  heart  through  long  lifetimes  of  loneliness. 
This  secret  bond  was  like  an  impalpable  yet  impenetra 
ble  veil  between  her  soul  and  the  souls  of  all  men 
who  came  into  relation  with  her.  Men  loved  her  and 
sought  her,  —  loved  her  warmly  and  sought  her  with  long 
years  of  devotion.  The  world  often  judged  her  unchari 
tably  by  reason  of  these  friendships,  which  were  only 
friendships,  and  yet  pointed  to  a  warmer  regard  than 
the  world  consents  that  friends  may  feel.  But  there 
was  never  a  man,  of  all  the  men  who  loved  Mercy,  who 
did  not  feel  himself,  spite  of  all  her  frank  and  loving 
intimacy,  withheld,  debarred,  separated  from  her  at  a 
certain  point,  as  if  there  stood  drawn  up  there  a  cordon 
of  viewless  spirits. 

The  one  grief  above  which  she  could  not  wholly  rise, 
which  at  times  smote  her  and  bowed  her  down,  was  her 
sense  of  her  loss  in  being  childless.  The  heart  of 
mother  was  larger  in  her  even  than  the  heart  of  wife. 
Her  longing  for  children  of  her  own  was  so  great  that 
it  was  often  more  than  she  could  bear  to  watch  little 
children  at  their  play.  She  stood  sometimes  at  her  win 
dow  at  dusk,  and  watched  the  poor  laboring  men  and 
women  going  home,  leading  or  carrying  their  children ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Everywhere, 
her  eye  noted  the  swarming  groups  of  children,  poor, 
uncared  for,  so  often  unwelcome ;  and  she  said  sadly 
to  herself,  "  So  many  !  so  many !  and  not  one  for  me." 


PHILBR1CICS  CHOICE.  287 


Yet  she  never  felt  any  desire  to  adopt  children.  She  dis 
trusted  her  own  patience  and  justice  too  much  ;  and  she 
feared  too  deeply  the  development  of  hereditary  traits 
which  she  could  not  conquer.  "  I  might  find  that  I  had 
taken  a  liar,"  she  thought;  "and  I  should  hate  him." 

As  she  reached  middle  age,  this  unsatisfied  desire 
ceased  to  be  so  great  a  grief.  She  became  more  and 
more  like  a  motherly  friend  to  the  young  people  surround 
ing  her.  Her  house  was  a  home  to  them  all,  and  she  re 
produced  in  her  own  life  very  nearly  the  relation  which 
Parson  Dorrance  had  held  to  the  young  people  of  Danby. 
Her  friend  Lizzy  Hunter  was  now  the  mother  of  four 
girls,  all  in  their  first  young  womanhood.  They  all  strove 
eagerly  for  the  privilege  of  living  with  "  Aunt  Mercy," 
and  went  in  turn  to  spend  whole  seasons  with  her. 

On  Stephen  White's  thirty-sixth  birthday,  his  mother 
died.  The  ten  years  which  had  passed  since  Mercy  left 
him  had  grown  harder  and  harder,  day  by  day  ;  but  he 
bore  the  last  as  silently  and  patiently  as  he  bore  the  first, 
and  Mrs.  White's  last  words  to  the  gray-haired  man  who 
bent  over  her  bed  were,  — 

"You  have  been  a  good  boy,  Steve,  —  a  good  boy. 
You'll  have  some  rest  now." 

Since  the  day  he  bade  good-by  to  Mercy  in  the  room 
from  which  Parson  Dorrance  had  just  been  buried, 
Stephen  had  never  written  to  her,  never  heard  from  her, 
except  as  all  the  world  heard  from  her,  in  her  published 
writings.  These  he  read  eagerly,  and  kept  them  care 
fully  in  scrap-books.  He  took  great  delight  in  collecting 
all  the  copies  of  her  verses.  Sometimes  a  little  verse  at 


288  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S   CHOICE. 

hers  would  go  the  rounds  of  the  newspapers  for  months, 
and  each  reappearance  of  it  was  a  new  pleasure  to 
Stephen.  He  knew  most  of  them  by  heart;  and  he 
felt  that  he  knew  Mercy  still,  as  well  as  he  knew  her 
when  she  looked  up  in  his  face.  On  the  night  of  his 
mother's  death,  he  wrote  to  her  these  words :  — 

"  MERCY,  —  It  is  ten  years  since  we  parted.  I  love 
you  as  I  loved  you  then.  I  shall  never  love  any  other 
woman.  I  am  free  now.  My  mother  has  died  this 
night.  May  I  come  and  see  you  ?  I  ask  nothing  of 
you,  except  to  be  your  friend.  Can  I  not  be  that  ? 

"  STEPHEN." 

If  a  ghost  of  one  dead  for  ten  years  had  entered 
her  presence,  Mercy  had  hardly  been  more  startled. 
Stephen  had  ceased  to  be  a  personality  to  her.  Striving 
very  earnestly  with  herself  to  be  kind,  and  to  do  for  this 
stranger  whom  she  knew  not  what  would  be  the  very 
best  and  most  healing  thing  for  his  soul,  Mercy  wrote 
to  him  as  follows :  — 

"  DEAR  STEPHEN,  —  Your  note  was  a  very  great  sur 
prise  to  me.  I  am  most  heartily  thankful  that  you  are 
at  last  free  to  live  your  life  like  other  men.  I  think  that 
the  future  ought  to  hold  some  very  great  and  good  gifts 
in  store  for  you,  to  reward  you  for  your  patience.  I  have 
never  known  any  human  being  so  patient  as  you. 

You  must  forgive  me  for  saying  that  I  do  not  believe 
it  is  possible  for  us  to  be  friends.  I  could  be  yours,  and 
would  be  glad  to  be  so.  But  you  could  not  be  mine 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  289 

while  you  continue  so  to  set  me  apart  from  all  other 
women,  as  you  say  you  do,  in  your  affection.  I  am 
truly  grieved  that  you  do  this,  and  I  hope  that  in  your 
new  free  life  you  will  very  soon  find  other  relations 
which  will  make  you  forget  your  old  one  with  me.  I 
did  you  a  great  harm,  but  we  were  both  ignorant  of  our 
mistake.  I  pray  that  it  may  yet  be  repaired,  and  that 
you  may  soon  be  at  rest  in  a  happy  home  with  a  wife 
and  children.  Then  I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  :  until 
then,  it  is  not  best. 

"  Yours  most  honestly, 

"  MERCY." 

Until  he  read  this  letter,  Stephen  had  not  known 
that  secretly  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  had  all  these 
years  cherished  a  hope  that  there  might  yet  be  a  future 
in  store  for  him  and  Mercy.  Now,  by  the  new  sense 
of  desolation  which  he  felt,  he  knew  that  there  must 
have  been  a  little  more  life  than  he  thought  left  in  him 
to  die. 

As  soon  as  his  mother  was  buried,  he  closed  the  house 
and  went  abroad.  There  he  roamed  about  listlessly 
from  country  to  country,  for  many  years,  acquiring  a 
certain  desultory  culture,  and  buying,  so  far  as  his  in 
come  would  permit,  every  thing  he  saw  which  he  thought 
Mercy  would  like.  Then  he  went  home,  bought  the  old 
Jacobs  house  back  again,  and  fitted  it  up  in  every  re 
spect  as  Mercy  had  once  suggested.  This  done,  he  sat 
down  to  wait  —  for  he  knew  not  what.  He  had  a  vague 
feeling  that  he  would  die  soon,  and  leave  the  house  and 
his  small  fortune  to  Mercy;  and  she  would  come  and 
13  s 


29°  MERCY  PHILBKICK'S  CHOICE. 

spend  her  summers  there,  and  so  he  would  recall  to 
her  their  old  life  together.  He  led  the  life  of  a  hermit, 
—  rarely  went  out,  and  still  more  rarely  saw  any  one  at 
home.  He  looked  like  a  man  of  sixty  rather  than  like 
one  of  fifty.  He  was  fast  becoming  an  invalid,  more, 
however,  from  the  lack  of  purpose  and  joy  than  from 
any  disease.  Life  had  been  very  hard  to  Stephen. 

Nothing  seemed  more  probable,  contrasting  his  list 
less  figure,  gray  hair,  and  jaded  face  with  Mercy's  full, 
fresh  countenance  and  bounding  elasticity,  than  that  his 
dream  of  going  first,  and  leaving  to  her  the  gift  of  all 
he  had,  would  be  realized ;  but  he  was  destined  to  out 
live  her  by  many  a  long  year. 

Mercy's  death  was  a  strange  one.  She  had  gone  with 
two  of  Lizzy  Hunter's  daughters  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
in  one  of  the  small  White  Mountain  villages,  which  was 
a  favorite  haunt  of  hers.  The  day  after  their  arrival,  a 
two  days'  excursion  to  some  of  the  mountains  was  pro 
posed  ;  and  Mercy,  though  not  feeling  well  enough  to 
join  it  herself,  insisted  that  the  girls  should  go.  They 
were  reluctant  to  leave  her ;  but,  with  her  usual  vehe 
mence,  she  resisted  all  their  protestations,  and  compelled 
them  to  join  the  party.  She  was  thus  left  alone  in  a 
house  crowded  with  people,  all  of  whom  were  strangers 
to  her.  Some  of  them  recollected  afterward  to  have  no 
ticed  her  sitting  on  the  piazza,  at  sunset,  looking  at  the 
mountains  with  an  expression  of  great  delight ;  but  no 
one  spoke  with  her,  and  no  one  missed  her  the  next 
morning,  when  she  did  not  come  to  breakfast.  Late  in 
the  forenoon,  the  landlady  came  running  in  great  terror 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  291 

and  excitement  to  one  of  the  guests,  exclaiming:  "  That 
lady  that  came  yesterday  is  dying.  The  chambermaids 
could  not  get  into  her  room,  nor  get  any  answer,  so  we 
broke  open  the  door.  The  doctor  says  she'll  never  come 
to  again ! " 

Helpless,  the  village  doctor,  and  the  servants,  and 
the  landlady,  and  as  many  of  the  guests  as  could  crowd 
into  the  little  room,  stood  around  Mercy's  bed.  It 
seemed  a  sad  way  to  die,  surrounded  by  strangers, 
who  did  not  even  know  her  name ;  but  Mercy  was 
unconscious.  It  made  no  difference  to  her.  Her 
heavy  breathing  told  only  too  well  the  nature  of  the 
trouble. 

"  This  cannot  be  the  first  attack  she  has  had,"  said 
the  doctor ;  and  it  was  found  afterward  that  Mercy  had 
told  Lizzy  Hunter  of  her  having  twice  had  threatenings 
of  a  paralytic  seizure.  "  If  only  I  die  at  once,"  she  had 
said  to  Lizzy,  "  I  would  rather  go  that  way  than  in  most 
others.  I  dread  the  dying  part  of  death.  I  don't  want 
to  know  when  I  am  going." 

And  she  did  not.  All  day  her  breathing  grew  slower 
and  more  labored,  and  at  night  it  stopped.  In  a  few 
hours,  there  settled  upon  her  features  an  expression  of 
such  perfect  peace  that  each  one  who  came  to  look  at 
her  stole  away  reverent  and  subdued. 

The  two  old  crones  who  had  come  to  "  lay  out " 
the  body  crept  about  on  tiptoe,  their  usual  garrulity 
quenched  by  the  sad  and  beautiful  spectacle.  It  was  a 
singular  thing  that  no  one  knew  the  name  of  the  stran 
ger  who  had  died  thus  suddenly  and  alone.  In  the  con 


MERCY  PIIILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


fusion  of  their  arrival,  Mercy  had  omitted  to  register 
their  names.  In  the  smaller  White  Mountain  houses, 
this  formality  is  not  rigidly  enforced.  And  so  it  came 
to  pass  that  this  woman,  so  well  known,  so  widely 
beloved,  lay  a  night  and  a  day  dead,  within  a  few 
hours'  journey  of  her  home,  as  unknown  as  if  she  had 
been  cast  up  from  a  shipwrecked  vessel  on  a  strange 
shore. 

The  two  old  crones  sat  with  the  body  all  night  and 
all  the  next  day.  They  sewed  on  the  quaint  garments  in 
which  it  is  still  the  custom  of  rural  New  England  to 
robe  the  dead.  They  put  a  cap  of  stiff  white  muslin 
over  Mercy's  brown  hair,  which  even  now,  in  her  fiftieth 
year,  showed  only  here  and  there  a  silver  thread.  They 
laid  fine  plaits  of  the  same  stiff  white  muslin  over  her 
breast,  and  crossed  her  hands  above  them. 

"  She  must  ha'  been  a  handsome  woman  in  her  time, 
Mis'  Bunker.  I  'spect  she  was  married,  don't  you?" 
said  Ann  Sweetser,  Mrs.  Bunker's  spinster  cousin,  who 
always  helped  her  on  these  occasions. 

"  Well,  this  ere  ring  looks  like  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Bun 
ker,  taking  up  a  bit  of  the  muslin  and  rubbing  the  broad 
gold  band  on  the  third  finger  of  Mercy's  left  hand. 
"  But  yer  can't  allers  tell  by  that  nowadays.  There  's 
folks  wears  'em  that  ain't  married.  This  is  a  real 
harndsome  ring,  's  heavy  's  ever  I  see." 

How  Mercy's  heart  must  have  been  touched,  and  also 
her  fine  and  pathetic  sense  of  humor,  if  her  freed  spirit 
hovered  still  in  that  little  low-roofed  room  !  This  cast- 
off  garment  of  hers,  so  carefully  honored,  so  curiously 


MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE.  2Q3 

considered  and  speculated  upon  by  these  simple-minded 
people  !  There  was  something  rarely  dramatic  in  all  the 
surroundings  of  these  last  hours.  Among  the  guests  in 
the  house  was  one,  a  woman,  herself  a  poet,  who  toward 
the  end  of  the  second  day  came  into  the  chamber, 
bringing  long  trailing  vines  of  the  sweet  Linnea,  which 
was  then  in  full  bloom.  Her  poet's  heart  was  moved  to 
the  depths  by  the  thought  of  this  unknown,  dead  woman 
lying  there,  tended  by  strangers'  hands.  She  gazed  with 
an  inexplicable  feeling  of  affection  upon  Mercy's  placid 
brow.  She  lifted  the  lifeless  hands  and  laid  them  down 
again  in  a  less  constrained  position.  She,  too,  noted 
the  broad  gold  ring,  and  said,  — 

"  She  has  been  loved  then.  I  wonder  if  he  is  alive  1 " 
The  door  was  closed,  and  no  one  was  in  the  room. 
With  a  strange  impulse  she  could  not  account  for  to 
herself,  she  said,  "  I  will  kiss  her  for  him,"  and  bent  and 
kissed  the  cold  forehead.  Then  she  laid  the  fragrant 
vines  around  the  face  and  across  the  bosom,  and  went 
away,  feeling  an  inexplicable  sense  of  nearness  to  the 
woman  she  had  kissed.  When  the  next  morning  she 
knew  that  it  was  Mercy  Philbrick,  the  poet,  in  whose 
lifeless  presence  she  had  stood,  she  exclaimed  with  a 
burst  of  tears,  "  Oh,  I  might  have  known  that  there  was 
some  subtile  bond  which  made  me  kiss  her!  I  have 
always  loved  her  verses  so." 

On  the  day  after  Lizzy  Hunter  returned  from  Mercy's 
funeral,  Stephen  White  called  at  her  house  and  asked  to 
speak  to  her.  She  had  almost  forgotten  his  existence, 
though  she  knew  that  he  was  living  in  the  Jacobs 


294  MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CBOICE. 

house.  Their  paths  never  crossed,  and  Lizzy  had  long 
ago  forgotten  her  passing  suspicion  of  Mercy's  regard 
for  him.  The  haggard  and  bowed  man  who  met  her 
now  was  so  unlike  the  Stephen  White  she  recollected, 
that  Lizzy  involuntarily  exclaimed.  Stephen  took  no 
notice  of  her  exclamation. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  will  not  sit  down,"  he  said,  as  with 
almost  solicitude  in  her  face  she  offered  him  a  chair. 
"  I  merely  wish  to  give  you  something  of  "  —  he  hesi 
tated— "Mrs.  Philbrick's." 

He  drew  from  his  breast  a  small  package  of  papers, 
yellow,  creased,  old.  He  unfolded  one  of  these  and 
handed  it  to  Lizzy,  saying,  — 

"This  is  a  sonnet  of  hers  which  has  never  been 
printed.  She  gave  it  to  me  when,"  —  he  hesitated 
again,  —  "  when  she  was  living  in  my  house.  She  said 
at  that  time  that  she  would  like  to  have  it  put  on  her 
tombstone.  I  did  not  know  any  other  friend  of  hers  to 
go  to  but  you.  Will  you  see  that  it  is  done  ?  " 

Lizzy  took  the  paper  and  began  to  read  the  sonnet. 
Stephen  stood  leaning  heavily  on  the  back  of  a  chair ; 
his  breath  was  short,  and  his  face  much  flushed. 

"  Oh,  pray  sit  down,  Mr.  White !  You  are  ill,"  ex- 
•laimed  Lizzy. 

"No,  I  am  not  ill.  I  would  rather  stand,"  replied 
Stephen.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  spot  where  thirty 
fears  before  Mercy  had  stood  when  she  said,  "  I  can't, 
Stephen." 

Lizzy  read  the  sonnet  with  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheeks. 


MERCY  PHILBIUCK'S   CHOICE.  295 

"  Oh,  it  is  beautiful,  —  beautiful  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Why  did  she  never  have  it  printed  ? " 

Stephen  colored  and  hesitated.  One  single  thrill 
of  pride  followed  by  a  bitter  wave  of  pain,  and  he 
replied,  — 

"  Because  I  asked  her  not  to  print  it." 

Lizzy's  heart  was  too  full  of  tender  grief  now  to  have 
any  room  for  wonder  or  resentment  at  this,  or  even  to 
realize  in  that  first  moment  that  there  was  any  thing 
strange  in  the  reply. 

"  Indeed,  it  shall  be  put  on  the  stone,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  so  thankful  you  brought  it.  I  have  been  thinking 
that  there  were  no  words  fit  to  put  above  her  grave. 
No  one  but  she  herself  could  have  written  any  that 
would  be,"  and  she  was  folding  up  the  paper. 

Stephen  stretched-  out  his  hand.  "  Pardon  me," 
he  said,  "  I  cannot  part  with  that.  I  have  brought 
a  copy  to  leave  with  you,"  and  he  gave  Lizzy  another 
paper. 

Mechanically  she  restored  to  him  the  first  one,  and 
gazed  earnestly  into  his  face.  Its  worn  and  harrowed 
features,  its  look  of  graven  patience,  smote  her  like  a 
cry.  She  was  about  to  speak  to  him  eagerly  and  with 
sympathy,  but  he  was  gone.  His  errand  was  finished,— 
the  last  thing  he  could  do  for  Mercy.  She  watched  his 
feeble  steps  as  he  walked  away,  and  her  pity  revealed 
to  her  the  history  of  his  past. 

"  How  he  loved  her  !  how  he  loved  her  I  "  she  said, 
and  watched  his  figure  lingeringly,  till  it  was  out  of 
sight. 


296 


MERCY  FHILBRICK'S  CHOICE. 


This  is  the  sonnet  which  was  cut  on  the  stone  above 
Mercy's  grave :  — 

EMIGRAVIT. 

With  sails  full  set,  the  ship  her  anchor  weighs ; 
Strange  names  shine  out  beneath  her  figure-head : 
What  glad  farewells  with  eager  eyes  are  said  ! 
What  cheer  for  him  who  goes,  and  him  who  stays  ! 
Fair  skies,  rich  lands,  new  homes,  and  untried  days 
Some  go  to  seek  :  the  rest  but  wait  instead 
Until  the  next  stanch  ship  her  flag  shall  raise. 
Who  knows  what  myriad  colonies  there  are 
Of  fairest  fields,  and  rich,  undreamed-of  gains, 
Thick-planted  in  the  distant  shining  plains 
Which  we  call  sky  because  they  lie  so  far  ? 
Oh,  write  of  me,  not,  —  "  Died  in  bitter  pains," 
But,  "  Emigrated  to  another  star  '  " 


THE  WRITINGS   OF 

HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.) 

STORIES 

RAMON  A.      rojtk  thousand,      izrno $1.50 

Monterey  Edition.  With  25  full-page  photogravure  plates  and 
numerous  chapter  headings.  By  HENRY  SANDHAM.  Introduc 
tion  by  SARAH  C.  WOOLSEY  (Susan  Coolidge).  2  vols.  8vo. 
Cloth,  extra,  gilt  top,  in  cloth  wrappers  and  cloth  box.  .  $6.00 

MERCY    PHILBRICK'S    CHOICE.      i6mo #1.25 

HETTY'S    STRANGE    HISTORY.      i6mo $1.25 

ZEPH.     A  Posthumous  Story.      i6mo $1-25 

BETWEEN    WHILES.      A  Collection  of  Stories.      i6mo.       $1.25 

POEMS 

"  She  has  been  called  our  finest  woman  poet.     The  woman  might 
well  be  omitted. "      R.   W.    EMERSON. 

COMPLETE  POEMS.  With  portrait.  i2mo.  .  .  .  #1.50 
White  and  gold.  $1.75  Half  morocco,  gilt  top.  $3.50 

TRAVEL 

GLIMPSES    OF    THREE    COASTS.      i2mo.         .     .     .     $1.50 
BITS    OF   TRAVEL.      Illustrated.      Square  i8mo.        .     .     $1.25 
BITS    OF   TRAVEL    AT    HOME.      Square  i8mo.    .     .     $1.45 
GLIMPSES  OF  CALIFORNIA  AND  THE   MISSIONS.     Ne-iu 
Edition.     With  37  pictures  by  Henry  Sandham,  including  numer 
ous  full-page  plates.      i2tno.      Decorated  cloth.      .      .      .      $1.50 
FATHER  JUNIPERO  AND  THE  MISSION  INDIANS.     School 
Edition,      izmo 75  cents  net 

A  CENTURY  OF  DISHONOR.  A  Sketch  of  the  U.  S.  Govern 
ment's  Dealings  with  some  of  the  Indian  Tribes.  12010.  $1.50 

BITS  OF  TALK  ABOUT  HOME  MATTERS. 
Square  i8mo $1-25 

JUVENILE 

BITS    OF    TALK    FOR    YOUNG    FOLKS.       Illustrated 

i6mo $i-*5 

NELLY'S  SILVER  MINE.     Illustrated.      i2mo.     .     .     .     $1.50 

CAT    STORIES.       Comprising   "  Letters  from  a  Cat,"    "Mammy 

Tittleback  and  her  Family,"   and  "The  Hunter  Cats  of  Connor- 

loa."     Illustrated.      3  vols.  in  one.      Small  410.     .      .      .      $2.00 

Sold  separately,  $1.25  each. 

LITTLE,    BROWN,   &   COMPANY,  Publishers 
254  Washington  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


ZEPH. 

A    POSTHUMOUS    STORY. 

BY  HELEN   JACKSON   (H.  H.). 
One  volume.     i6mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.25. 


The  story  is  complete  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  few  chapters  remained  still 
to  be  written  when  the  writer  succumbed  to  disease.  Begun  and  mainly  com 
pleted  at  Los  Angeles  last  year,  the  manuscript  had  been  put  by  to  be  completed 
when  returning  health  should  have  made  continuous  labor  possible.  But  health 
never  returned ;  the  disease  steadily  deepened  its  hold,  and  a  few  days  before  her 
death,  foreseeing  that  the  end  was  near,  Mrs.  Jackson  sent  the  manuscript  to 
her  publisher,  with  a  brief  note,  enclosing  a  short  outline  of  the  chapters  which 
remained  unwritten.  .  .  .  The  real  lesson  of  the  book  lies  in  Zeph's  unconquer 
able  affection  for  his  worthless  wife,  and  in  the  beautiful  illustration  of  the  divine 
trait  of  forgiveness  which  he  constantly  manifested  toward  her.  As  a  portraiture 
of  a  character  moulded  and  guided  by  this  sentiment,  "Zeph  "  will  take  its  place 
with  the  best  of  Mrs.  Jackson's  work ;  a  beautiful  plea  for  love  and  charity  and 
long-suffering,  patience  and  forgiveness,  coming  from  one  whose  hand  now  rests 
from  this  and  all  kindred  labors.  —  New  York  Christian  Union. 

Although  the  beautiful  and  pathetic  story  of  "Zeph"  was  never  quite  com 
pleted,  the  dying  author  indicated  what  remained  to  be  told  in  the  few  unwritten 
chapters,  and  it  comes  to  us,  therefore,  not  as  a  curious  fragment,  but  as  an  all 
but  finished  work.  There  is  something  most  tender  and  sad  in  the  supreme  artis 
tic  conscientiousness  of  one  who  could  give  such  an  illustration  of  fidelity  and  so 
emphasize  the  nobility  of  labor  from  her  death-bed.  These  things  that  bring 
back  the  gracious  spirit  from  whose  loss  the  heart  of  the  reading  world  is  still 
smarting,  would  lend  pathos  and  interest  to  "  Zeph"  even  if  they  did  not  exist  in 
the  story  itself.  The  creation  of  "  Zeph"  is  a  fitting  close  to  a  life  of  splendid 
literary  activity,  and  it  will  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  believe  in  the  novel  as,  first 
of  all,  a  work  of  art,  which  can  be  made  in  proper  hands  a  tremendous  force  for 
truth  and  justice,  and  real  instead  of  formal  righteousness.  — New  York  Com 
mercial  Advertiser. 

As  people  grow  older  they  see  more  and  more  clearly  that  love  —  the  love 
between  man  and  woman  —  is  the  great  power  that  shapes  character,  and  makes 
life  a  blessing,  a  burden,  or  a  curse.  More  and  more  deeply  did  Mrs.  Jackson 
feel  the  omnipotence  of  perfect,  patient  love,  the  only  power  that  is  sure  of  final 
victory,  and  to  show  this  did  she  tell  the  story  of  Zeph.  Before  the  story  was 
finished,  Mrs.  Jackson  became  too  ill  to  work  any  more ;  but  the  life  of  Zeph 
was  very  near  her  heart ;  she  wanted  to  make  it  known,  to  impress  the  lesson, 
that  through  knowledge  of  a  great  forgiving  human  love  even  the  saddest  and 
most  sinful  creature  may  come  to  a  faith  in  a  great  forgiving  divine  love,  in  a  God 
as  good  as  she  has  known  a  man  to  be,  and  so  in  her  last  hours  Mrs.  Jackson 
made  a  brief  outline  of  the  plot  for  the  end  of  the  story.  As  her  latest  work, 
this  has  a  special  and  pathetic  interest  — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  pub- 
Ushers^ 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY,  Boston. 


DATE  DUE 


1968 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


L  LI8RARY  F 


ACILITY 


000301  894 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  It  was  borrowed. 


J 

I  A  'CO 


JUN16Y9 


